


sacred things that i am keeping (for you)

by crispy_ceasar



Series: kids smoking in cemeteries (trying to remember what it's like to be nothing again) [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Panic Attacks, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, Weed, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, come get yall weednap juice, i literally didn't study for my exams to write this, jesus christ these mfs are fuckt up someone give them therapy, look i drank a whole monster blacked out and woke up to 3k words Help, pspsps please read this i swear it's good owo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispy_ceasar/pseuds/crispy_ceasar
Summary: they used to play in here as kids, but now schlatt stores weed and cigarettes under the floorboards, and vodka in the dusty boxes next to water stained sepia pictures. no one comes up here anymore anyways.orwilbur's on a mission to ruin his own life. schlatt's there too.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: kids smoking in cemeteries (trying to remember what it's like to be nothing again) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000830
Comments: 299
Kudos: 704





	1. you are coming down with me (hand in unlovable hand)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well hello there, i'm back with another fic and,,,, hngg explanation i'm Not a shipper but i slammed a monster and like,,,, lost 3 to 7 o clock and kinda just faded back in to almost 3k words of THIS????? but ive decided there's gonna be Plot, so if you don't like schlattbur i promise the rest is gonna be minimal uhkjdxdk if u want wilbur angst this is for u
> 
> tw / weed, drugs

“you wanna shotgun it?” 

wilbur tenses up when the older teen speaks, fingers positioned over a lighter, and the other hand, curled around a joint.

“i’m a big boy schlatt, i can smoke by myself.” he laughs, undercurrent of nervousness threading its way through the spaces in his words.

“but,” he leans into wilbur’s personal space, eyes dark and grinning, “it’ll be fun.” 

he hesitates.

he knows he can never say no to schlatt.

“sure.” 

the look the other gives him makes him shudder although the september air is still humid. summer had faded long ago, and it’s only her bitter memory that clings onto the slowly shortening days.

schlatt flicks the lighter, setting aflame the tip of the paper and watching it crumple away to ash. he turns toward the taller boy.

“c’mere.” he laughs, and fuck wouldn’t wilbur do anything to hear that sound again. 

wilbur leans forward, eyes hesitant and schlatt grabs his jaw and pulls him even closer. he can hear his heart beating wildly locked behind his ribcage. the other boy's arm pressed into his side, smelling like cigarette smoke and mint gum. what the fuck was schlatt playing at? 

he takes a slow drag of the joint, making intense eye contact with the taller teen. he feels blood rushing into his ears, heart thumping wildly. wilbur was going to fucking kill him. what the fuck. 

he pulls the joint away, and suddenly him and wilbur are nose to nose, and he closes his eyes, so wilbur does too. this is fucking weird, wilbur thinks. adrenaline thrums through his veins. 

their lips barely brush, ghosting against each other and schlatt slowly exhales into his open mouth. wilbur inhales the smoke from the others mouth, shivering at the intimacy of it all, and as suddenly as he’d leaned in, he’s gone. wilbur blinks, swallowing smoke. 

he’s smirking the fucking bastard. oh god i wanna strangle him. 

schlatt just takes another hit, dark eyes glittering like the backdrop of stars he sits in front of. and god wilbur could write fucking sonnets about that shit. they’re so high up, on the very tallest roof of schlatt’s house. he can see everything. the evening light fades into a deep indigo, but the brightest stars shimmer against the cool purple on the horizon. 

it’s not as pretty as schlatt. he looks so fucking stupid. just sitting up there smoking a joint with his fucking nike hoodie and his stupid converse. he looks like he’s on top of the world. 

so fucking stupid. what an idiot. he starts forward, gesturing to the joint schlatt’s holding between his teeth.

“that’s my weed asshole. gimme.” 

schlatt laughs lazily, smoke cascading from his mouth and he leans forward to pass it over to wilbur. 

he sucks down the smoke, and wonders how he got here on the roof, heart beating out of his chest when schlatt gets close. fuck. more weed, less thinking about things that will only hurt him in the end. 

“hey pretty boy.” schlatt snaps his fingers. 

wilbur sends him a half-heated playful glare. 

“mhmm.” 

“isn’t your whole family home tonight.” 

“oh, yeah.” wilbur realizes, “fuck.”

schlatt reaches for the joint again.

“better not have too much.” wilbur rolls his eyes.

“shut the fuck up, schlatt.” he laughs out smoke, spiraling into the cooling air in front of him. through it he sees schlatt laughing too, face tilted up to the sky. 

they finish the joint between them, in relative silence. they both have things on their minds. things that they don’t need to share with each other. of course they’re best friends, but they don’t need to tell each other everything, and it’s rare that schlatt would admit to any of his feelings anyway. but wilbur feels it in the way he stares up at the sky as if it holds all the answers to his worldly problems. he’s troubled. so they smoke.

or maybe he’s just really fucking high. his brain tends to ramble while high, going around in circles and running away on long tangents and finding metaphors that don’t make any sense and confuse him when he sees what he’d written in the morning. that’s why he doesn’t write songs while high. he’ll think a lyric is fucking genuis, then the next morning it’s barely legible and doesn’t make any fucking sense. he doesn’t like smoking alone, anyway. often leads to a downward spiral.

no it’s much better to hang out with schlatt, on the roof of his house smoking into the night. occasionally someone else joins, like eret, or maybe minx. but wilbur prefers when it’s just the two of them. 

schlatt breaks up his thoughts by tapping on his head, eyes bloodshot and hair messy. 

“hello? wilbur soot in there?” wilbur snorts, batting his hand away. 

“weirdo.”

“you love it.”

“...shut up.” 

schlatt bursts into laughter while wilbur flushes red from the tips of his ears to his neck. fucking schlatt. wilbur was gonna strangle him. straight up murder. schlatt just flings an arm around wilbur’s shoulder, still laughing to himself. 

“c’mon wil, i’ll walk you home. do you want a good night kiss too?” he cackles.

wilbur shoves him off, rolling his eyes. 

“you fucking wish schlatt.” 

“hell yeah i do.” his tone is joking, but his dark eyes bore into wilbur’s own, conveying something beyond words. god, schlatt needed to stop doing that. wilbur was going to have a stroke at the tender age of seventeen, and it would be all his fault.

wilbur shrugs him off, standing up and brushing ash off of his jeans. schlatt does the same, putting out the stub of the stuttering joint on his khakis.

they climb through the window that had allowed them to get onto the roof, sliding into the spacious attic. they used to play in here as kids, but now schlatt stores weed and cigarettes under the floorboards, and vodka in the dusty boxes next to water stained sepia pictures. no one comes up here anymore anyways. they quickly leave, locking the memories in with the cobwebs and broken children’s toys.

they go to the kitchen, all sleek white and stainless steel. a far cry from the kitchen at wilbur’s house, set with warm wood and olive greens. he guesses schlatt’s family aren’t exactly the most warm people. sometimes it makes him sad. to think about that. 

wilbur hoists himself up onto the countertop, and watches schlatt pop two eggos into the toaster. it’s their routine. they smoke on the roof, and come down high off their asses to get the shitty frozen waffles. they make three, and fight over the third one. wilbur smears peanut butter on his, and schlatt eats his plain. then, schlatt walks wilbur home. it’s a comforting routine. no matter how tumultuous things are in his life, he knows he can fight schlatt for the last frozen waffle. 

and the eggos pop, and schlatt tosses one at wilbur who barely catches it. he slides off the counter to rummage for peanut butter in the fridge. he’s not even sure anyone in schlatt’s family likes peanut butter. but there’s always a jar in the fridge anyway. that probably means something, somehow, but his head is all fuzzy so he doesn’t dwell on it. 

it feels oddly domestic, clattering around the kitchen with schlatt. he quickly pushes the thought away. as he spreads peanut butter on the waffle. schlatt comes up behind him and pushes his shoulder. wilbur pushes him back, and they both giggle, stumbling on their feet. 

“dad wants me home for dinner.” wilbur says thoughtfully through a mouthful of eggo. the darker haired teen snorts, and swallows before speaking.

“maybe you should, i dunno, be home for dinner?”

“ehhh.” wilbur waves the eggo around. schlatt shrugs.

when they finish their snack, getting into a mild argument about who got the third eggo of course, (this time schlatt ate it, arguing that wilbur had to go eat dinner with his family) they walked on unsteady feet to the bathroom. and this is how it always went. schlatt practically held wilbur’s eyes open as he put visine in them. for some reason he could never manage to drop them in himself. schlatt always had to pin him against the counter, and he’d fight the redness that threatened to show on his face. they always got the eye drops all over themselves, because he would squint at the last minute and they would end up dripping down his cheeks. he’s horrible at putting in contacts, but somehow fucking worse at putting in eye drops.

but finally they end up leaving, closing the front door behind them into the evening light. as they trekked down the sidewalk, their shadows cast grey silhouettes on the pavement. they laugh all the way down the street, pushing each other around and giggling like idiots. 

all too soon, it seems that the house rises up in front of the two teens. they head up the cobblestone walk, bordered with bright flowers and colorfully painted rocks they’d done when they were kids. the paint is chipped and fading, but the designs are still decipherable. a beach scene and a whale, done by wilbur. techno’s night sky and strawberry. tommy’s cow and… abstract mess. phil’s meticulously painted leopard print rock. all four of their handprints, each on different sized rocks. 

“why the fuck are you staring at rocks.” schlatt snorts, breaking him from his internal tangent. he grins, shaking his head.

“rocks are sexy.” he goes with.

schlatt throws his head back and laughs, and it seems to echo off the trees that border the far end of the yard. 

“wilbur, you’re a fucking idiot.” 

there’s something heavy behind the way wilbur’s name drips off his tongue. like honey. wilbur would be lying if he said he didn’t swallow thickly whenever he said it like that.

his eyes follow the dark haired teen as he hops up the steps, turning with a flourish and extending a hand towards wilbur.

“m’lady.” 

wilbur laughs. “m’sir.” he says mockingly. the edges of his vision seem to warp and vibrate, and his thoughts feel like syrup, or the honey that drips from schlatt’s mouth. that’s a good song lyric. he’ll put that down on paper, later, alone in his room with a guitar in one hand and a pen in the other. 

but right now him and schlatt are standing on the front porch, evening light reflecting in the glass patterns on the door and dancing across their faces. the sky is a dull purple, like a bruise. wilbur’s heart aches, but he pushes it aside and when schlatt grins sharply at him, he grins back. 

“see ya, wil.” he says, softer than usual. 

“see ya, schlatt.” 

the teen hesitates for a moment, looking like he wants to say something for a split second, but the moment passes and he turns and saunters down the walkway. away into the darkening street, heavy fruit on the trees that line the street swaying in the cool breeze. the overripe fruit has just about passed its peak, starting to darken and rot. he has a clear memory of schlatt, younger and grinning broadly, peach juice dripping down his chin. bright green leaves cast dappled shadows on him as they swayed in the warm summer air, lawn mowers and buzzing bees somewhere beneath them.

nothing else could touch them up here, long sturdy branches holding them several feet above everyone else. up here, they were kings, they were eternal, they were…

“why the hell are you just standing here?” 

his head shot up, wide eyes zeroing in on tommy, holding the door open with a quizzical expression. 

“oh, uh, it’s nice. um, out here.” he stammers. tommy eyes him, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. 

“phil made soup.” he informs wilbur, holding the door open wider. wilbur smiles, and pushes past tommy who shouts something after him. he ignores him, of course, kicking off his ratty sneakers, and tommy comes up behind him. 

“technos not here, actually. i think he’s at dream’s house, which oh my god is crazy, isn’t it crazy wilbur? i mean dream is like really popular and…” wilbur steps into the kitchen, tommy, rambling, barrels past him and to the counter where phil stands, raising an eyebrow at his youngest. 

“you’re here wil!” phil says. 

“hi.” he says, ever so eloquently. yeah, he’s never gonna be able to tell i’m incredibly fucking high. for sure. 

phil, to his credit, doesn’t seem phased and just stirs the pot on the stove with a wooden spoon. it smells delicious, and wilbur’s nose starts tingling. yeah, he’s way too high for this. god. 

tommy looks at him and narrows his eyes suspiciously, the fucking gremlin. he better not snitch if he knows whats good for him. 

“wil! were you hanging with big schlatt?”

“i was.” he nods.

“what did you do?” he poses it as an innocent question, in usual tommy fashion, but wilbur can see the question in his eyes. phil doesn’t seem to pick up on it, either way.

“y’know, played some minecraft. the usual.” he nods, trying to stretch his face into something that resembles a normal smile. nothing illegal here. just two bros being bros. yikes. he inwardly cringed at that, and it was his own fucking thought. 

“loser.” tommy cackled.

“tommy you literally play minecraft too.” 

“yeah, but i’m ten times better than you so it doesn’t count.” 

wilbur stares him down. tommy grins back, taunting him by leaning forward. 

“fucking gremlin, come here.” he says suddenly, and lunges across the table and tommy fucking screeches like a maniac and jumps back. he hears phil wheezing in the background, as he rounds the table and grabs at tommy who skirts from within his reach.

“help! phil he’s trying to kill me!” he shrieks, now being chased around the table by wilbur.

“oh, i don’t know you look like you’re doing fine.” phil snorts. 

wilbur abruptly turns the other way, and tommy skids nearly crashing into him. he grabs the boy and puts him in a headlock.

“PHIL HELP!” 

“shut up tommy.” wilbur snickers, shoving him to the floor, “that’s what you get.” 

over the sounds of tommy angrily yelling at him, and phil practically crying laughing by the counter, he hears the door creak slowly open. he turns his head towards the door, fully expecting to see his monotone brother enter the room and start making fun of tommy. but he just hears the stairs creak, and a few moments later, the click of a door. huh. 

“wilbur you asshole, you’ll pay for this.”

“tommy i’m like a foot taller than you, what do you think you’re gonna do.”

“oh shut up, you’re like four inches.” 

“six, actually.” he smirks. tommy pauses.

“that whole conversation sounded so wrong can we just-“ wilbur bursts into laughter, tommy following suit. wilbur’s practically crying he’s laughing so hard, and leans on the table for support.

“oh, fuck.” he gasps, out of breath.

“there are tears in my eyes.” phil howls.

tommy just makes a strange noise from where he’d decided to just not get up from the floor. 

“oh god i might’ve peed a little bit.” wilbur gasped. this sends the other two back into a fit of laughter. 

it’s here, he decides, that he’d like to stay forever. in this moment, encase it in sticky amber and hold it close when it starts to crystallize. he feels warmth in his abdomen. maybe he’s just high as fuck. but this is the type of thing you remember when you’re older and ache.

there’s just one thing missing. someone who would make a sarcastic comment aimed at tommy, someone to share a look with wilbur, someone to look to phil with an expression that says “help” and get laughed at. it’s techno. his stupid pink haired brother. come to think of it, he hasn’t seen technoblade much these past couple weeks. he’s been holing himself up in his room, most of the time, barely coming out and even more monotone then usual. he kinda sounds dead, which scares wilbur a little bit because he sounds like… well, him when he’s in a bad place. it’s a little worrying to be honest. he’s probably at least semi-fine though. sixteen is a weird age. wilbur’s had been actual hell on earth, and he’d spent most of it crying, writing songs, and smoking.

...maybe wilbur would try to check up on him, though

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UH YEAH i hope yall liked?? as always lemme know if somethings formatted strange or something :)


	2. life's too short to even care at all

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello there! i'm back with the schlattbur content >:) half of this was written on the fckin monster energy high, then i kinda got stuck so idk if it's good but this is how it turned out!
> 
> tw / drugs, date r/pe drug mention

this beer tastes like piss.

that’s really the only thought in wilbur’s mind at the moment. the flashing lights and loud music evade all other senses. the room is unusually warm. he clutches the red solo cup tighter, sidestepping a couple getting a little bit too handsy on the couch. ah. classy. 

of course, it’s classy for a sapnap party. apparently they were considered exclusive. wilbur didn’t know how, because he’s pretty sure half the fucking school is here. and the alcohol choice was distinctly terrible. gross. who even drinks beer? 

he descends to the lowest level of the house, sneakered feet swerving around cans discarded on the wood stairs, and trying not to fucking slip on the spilled alcohol dripping down from the fifth stair. jesus christ. wilbur scans the dark basement, teenagers half sprawled on couches and the floor, and each other, and regards them with slight disdain. sure he’s been there, but really? at a sapnap party? at only fucking eleven pm, really?

he shakes his head, downing the rest of the now warm piss beer. where did his friends go? the room is swaying slightly, and he’s sure he is too. onto the garage then. 

he pokes his head through the door. there’s no one in the garage, but the door is open and he can see distant silhouettes surrounding a bonfire. so this is where the action is. he looks for a place to put the red cup, realizes there’s nowhere and just throws it on the floor. sapnap can deal with that. serves him right for not having better alcohol. 

he stumbles across the yard, until he can just make out who’s sitting around the flames. looks like… fundy, eret, niki, george, dream, oh! schlatt and… minx. hm. surprisingly, the famed party host and usual part of the “dream team” (what a stupid name, like those idiots needed a bigger ego) wasn’t there. there are a couple others he recognizes vaguely, but doesn’t know that well. sapnap’s friends, probably.

“hey guys!” he calls when he gets closer. they all look toward him.

“wil!”

“hey wilbur!”

“ay wilbur.”

“sup.”

he stops in front of the fire, scanning the faces of his friends. niki’s eyes lit up as soon as she saw him, and gave a small wave. fundy’s eyes are bloodshot, and god doesn’t wilbur know that look well. minx and schlatt are… sitting very close together. he skips over that. not gonna think about it. nope. 

dream and george are chatting quietly. he sees eret pass a joint to fundy out of the corner of his eye. and he turns lightening fast, almost involuntarily. fundy looks up, sees him staring and laughs.

“you in?”

“fuck yeah.” he walks around to sit next to the ginger. fundy looks him up and down, and grins in amusement.

“wil are you already tipsy? it’s like eleven.”

“what can i say.” he laughs, “i live to party.” 

“oh yeah he’s a real party animal.” schlatt pipes in with a wink. resounding groans came from everyone within earshot. minx laughs, and leans closer to schlatt in the process.

wilbur sets his jaw, and turns back to fundy. the ginger doesn’t seem to notice, and pulls out a lighter. the process is familiar to wilbur, having done it so many times he could probably do it in his sleep. he hears approaching footsteps from the grass, and turns to see the renowned host himself.

“hey guys!” sapnap bounces up to the group of them, “i just sold an eighth grader a vape for like fifty dollars.” everyone snorts. wilbur just rolls his eyes. sapnap made a hobby out of scamming kids for drugs. wilbur would say he doesn’t endorse it, but once him and schlatt sold oregano in a plastic baggie to some ninth graders for like thirty bucks. it was the best thing he’s ever pulled off. 

“sapnap, stop scamming people and hang out with us.” george pokes him as he fits into the space between him and dream.

“sapnap you have horrible alcohol taste.” wilbur announces. sapnap giggles.

“that’s the cheap stuff i put out front. the best stuff is here, actually.” he explains, cracking open a can. 

there’s a tap on wilbur’s shoulder, and he half-turns to see fundy holding the lit joint out to him, one eyebrow raised expectantly. wilbur silently takes it. he remembers when he was in middle school, and they did a stupid program in health class to prevent drug addiction. he remembers signing a printed piece of paper saying he’d never do drugs. he remembers how schlatt mimed smoking a cigarette behind the teacher’s back, how wilbur knew he had a lighter in his back pocket. how wilbur used to wrinkle his nose at the smell, and now he goes a little red because it reminds him of every time schlatt evades his personal space. 

he sucks in the smoke, and it pours down his throat into his lungs and he feels it ache when he breathes deeply. perfect. he coughs into his hand, before taking another hit. he’s probably weird, because he loves smoking. he likes the feeling when he breathes deeply, and his lungs contract and he can feel every joint he’s ever smoked building up on the walls of his trachea. he supposes, on a deeper level, that he enjoys ruining himself, and knowing that he is the one doing it. there’s no one else holding him down and pushing his head under the tap until he’s blue in the lips and gasping for air. no one else who can make him so sad he can’t breathe. it’s his hands, now that lift the joint to his lips, and his mouth that takes a third hit, and a big one too. 

he holds it back out to fundy, coughing into his arm. the ginger tosses him an amused look. he glares half-heartedly. fundy absolutely can’t judge him, being high as fuck and going for another joint. god they all needed therapy, didn’t they? 

he watches as eret laughs at something fundy said, smoke billowing from their mouth and mixing with the smoke from the crackling fire. his eyes follow it further, to where it appears to drift directly into the night sky. it’s peaceful. someone’s playing lil peep on a shitty speaker, and he listens to the music and finds himself staring across the fire directly at schlatt. the hot air from the campfire distorts the air above it, and the image of schlatt ripples like a mirage, or the air just above the sidewalk in a summer heat wave. 

he can’t seem to take his eyes off the other boy. watches as he sips from a red solo cup, saying something to minx with a shit eating grin. the purple haired girl laughs, yells something at him. wonder what that’s about. he frowns. better to not dwell on it. 

he shakes his thoughts off, turning back to fundy and reaching for the joint again. 

“greedy bitch.” fundy mutters.

“i’ll ground you, fundy.” he warns teasingly, alluding to the stupid inside joke in the group that fundy was his son. fundy just lets out a long suffering sigh. 

“here asshole.” he hands it over to wilbur, who smugly takes a hit and blows it in his face. fundy just looks at him with a deadpan expression through the billowing smoke. 

he snorts, then freezes when he feels someone sit next to him on the bench. he twists his body around, coming nose to nose with schlatt. and oh. he’s really close. he can see schlatt’s eyes widen slightly, and absentmindedly thinks he could count the faint freckles that bridge his nose. he notes schlatt’s expression of surprise, and the red that dusts his cheekbones. he’s sure he looks the same. 

“oh-“

“hey-“

schlatt quickly pulls back, and wilbur can just see him smoothing himself out again, huffing a small breath. 

“came to make sure you weren’t, i don’t know, doing molly again.” he swiftly moves on. wilbur winces.

schlatt would never let him live down the time he mixed up the names of strains and accidentally bought laced weed and cried on his floor for five hours about how schlatt was his bestest friend. or, so he’s heard. he really doesn’t remember. yeah, many mistakes were made in tenth grade.

“okay, that was one time-” 

“and you literally sobbed because you loved everyone so much, then started listing reasons why everyone was amazing.” he smirks. 

“oh, i’d like to hear this story.” fundy leaned forward. 

schlatt laughed evilly. “oh it was so funny. i took like two videos, but i was scared he’d actually die so i mostly had to listen to him cry.” 

“schlatt oh my god.” wilbur groans, “he doesn’t need to see the video-“ 

schlatt was already swiping through his camera roll. fundy, passes him the now almost gone joint with mocking false sympathy.

“you’re gonna need it.” he cackles. 

“here!” schlatt tilts the phone towards fundy, who watches with interest. wilbur sighs, putting the joint to his lips again. in the video, which he’s seen way too many times before thank you, wilbur is laying face down on the floor, gangly limbs sprawled in a starfish position. video schlatt barks a laugh, and nudges him with his foot.

“are you alive wil.” video schlatt says, obviously trying not to laugh. 

video wilbur just rolls over, and the video zooms in on his blown pupils. 

“no, i’ve ascended to the furthest corner of heaven.” slurs video wilbur. real fundy and schlatt burst into screeching laughter. real wilbur huffs out smoke and wonders who he should murder first. 

“oh- ok buddy.” video schlatt snickers. video wilbur reaches a hand up toward the ceiling, staring at his hand in wonder.

“it’s fucking snowing schlatt.” 

“huh?” video schlatt says incredulously.

fundy cackles, nearly falling off the fucking bench. what an asshole. laughing at his pain. 

the video zooms in further on wilbur’s face, as he abruptly turns to look at the camera and the video ends. schlatt slips the phone into his pocket again. 

“i don’t get why it’s so funny.” wilbur all but whines, “you dick.” schlatt snorts. 

he’s been downing the alcohol in his cup, but wilbur knows schlatt isn’t as fucked as him right now. he doesn’t seem that bothered, but wilbur feels like his world is spinning around on its axis. getting crossed always fucks him up. every time he thinks he can handle it, and every time he’s wrong. in the morning, he’ll find himself somewhere he doesn’t remember being at. he’s woken up at the beach, sapnap’s backyard, schlatt’s backyard, dream’s car (that had been an interesting day). 

right now that sounds pretty good, honestly. not being able to remember. not being able to think straight. he knows he thinks too much. he thinks even more when he’s high, but when he passes a certain point his brain just shuts off. it just takes a lot, and he has to inhale it fast enough to skip over the paranoia easily. but it works. 

“hey, i know that look.” schlatt snaps his fingers in front of wilbur’s face, breaking him from his stupor, “you’re about to do something stupid.”

“...maybe.” he relents. the darker haired boy looks him up and down, and fuck wilbur fights to control the blush that threatens to creep up his cheeks.

“i’m included in this, right?” 

“oh, of course.” 

schlatt leans in closer, before whispering conspiritually in his ear.

“so what’s the plan.” 

“get absolutely fucked.” a slow grin starts spreading across his face. 

“wilbur, you’re speaking my language.” 

they laugh. schlatt grins at him, turning to sweep a hand around the bonfire.

“now who here looks like they have drugs.” 

“sapnap’s a shady bastard.” wilbur says thoughtfully. schlatt nods sagely. 

“there’s a shit ton of alcohol over there.” he gestures to the area behind where minx and niki are now giggling with each other. 

“perfect.” wilbur tries to stand, and nearly falls again. schlatt grabs him on the upper arm, almost reflexively and holds him steady. 

“woah there.” he laughs, eyes wide and nervous. wilbur’s cheeks burn. he lets go. 

“o- okay let’s go.” 

“yeah.” 

they weave around a couple of teenagers blowing smoke into the sky and the cooler that sits on the grass behind the two girls comes into view. 

“hell yeah.” schlatt rummages through it, ice clinking against glass bottles and alcohol sloshing around inside the cans. wilbur stares at his messy dark hair, and the lighter sticking out of his back pocket. 

god this is embarrassing.

schlatt straightens up, oblivious to his staring, and tosses him a can. he fumbles to catch it, nearly dropping it because everything has started to vibrate, like when your foot falls asleep but his vision. the name on the can is indecipherable, but he cracks it open and takes a sip anyways. it’s strong, strong that if he’d been in ninth grade it would’ve made his eyes water and burned his throat. but he isn’t, at least not anymore, and it doesn’t. 

he doesn’t think he should be drinking any more. he takes a big gulp anyway, just to spite himself and probably everyone who’s ever told him that he was fucking up his life. god he knows. 

someone puts a hand on his shoulder, and the alcohol didn’t burn but fuck did his touch, canceling out all other input. his body responded to the touch, no matter what. it always did. 

“everyone’s going back inside.” the voice wraps around the inside of his brain like smooth chocolate, “it’s what, twelve? party should be picking up.” he barely manages to nod.

“right.” the hand is gone, and it’s immensely colder without it. 

they head across the dew covered backyard, stamping blades of grass and clovers underfoot. the moon hangs low and pale in the sky, half full and waxing. the only sound is a faint thumping bass from the house, some shitty rap song that people like sapnap fucking like. looks like most people went inside. actually, with a quick glance back, niki and minx were the only ones sitting by the slowly dying fire. 

he stumbles in the darkness, reaching forward to catch himself on schlatt. that’s the way it is, that’s the way it always will be. they’ve gotten fucked up so many times, and they’re always there to catch each other. he rights himself again, shaking it off and throwing back the last of the can. 

he might be a little too fucked, because he can’t exactly remember how much beer he had before everything else. fuck, how much was it? was it really that much? because he shouldn’t feel this fucked up right now.

there’s something wrong.

abruptly the garage looms out from the darkness, and he can hear muffled shouts now. it always gets better later. wilder. people have more alcohol in their systems, more people show up later too, and the lightweights are passed out on the floor.

the basement is flashing with a cacophony of flashing lights and yelling and sweaty people crammed into the smaller space. girls wearing short shorts and glitter, and guys wearing khakis and sharp grins. he weaves his way through, losing schlatt in the process. he starts to feel sick from all the movement, white spots dancing around his vision threatening to collapse him. nausea wells up in his stomach and wilbur stumbles up the stairs, gripping the railing for dear life.

luckily the upstairs is better, quieter, and his friends are up here in the living room. he hears schlatt come up behind him, his heavy steps on the stairs and turns his body slightly toward him. 

“lost you for a sec.” 

“it’s crazy down there.” wilbur mutters, shoving the heel of his palms into his eyes. he hears schlatt take a step forward.

“you good?”

“yeah, just…” he opens his eyes and darkness threatens the corners of his vision, dizziness suddenly sweeping through him. his head pounds. 

“oh woah hey hey hey.” schlatt stumbles forward, catching him as he suddenly drops like a rock. still, he’s heavy and drags both of them down to the floor just outside sapnap’s living room. the cold floor presses into his spine, schlatt stopping him from completely smacking his head on the hardwood. he vaguely hears schlatt calling for sapnap, aggressively asking him what kind of shit he has at these parties. his ears are ringing.

“i don’t know! just normal stuff schlatt.” 

“well look at him!”

“m okay…” he slurs, weakly trying to sit up. 

“shut the fuck up wilbur.” came schlatt’s voice, and though the words were harsh, the tone was slightly frantic. worried. he was worried.

he feels someone dragging him into the living room, which is good because he thinks he lost the ability to use his legs. huh. that’s not supposed to happen.

“...i’m gonna be honest schlatt he looks like he was drugged.” 

“like?”

“like, y’know, uh a date rape drug. rohypnol maybe.” 

“what.” schlatt’s voice is flat and disbelieving.

“it’s possible.” sapnap shrugs.

he feels himself being propped against a couch, and curls in on himself a little. seriously? 

“wilbur can you open your eyes?” someones speaking directly to him now, softly. 

he pries his eyes open, despite the fact that they feel like lead, and squints into the room. everything’s hazy and rippling, but he sees niki sitting in front of him, staring worriedly into his face. 

“he might need to go to the hospital.” she says to the others, stress accentuating her german accent. 

“nah.” he mumbles, “m god.”

there was a pause. and then-

“oh god shut up idiot.” schlatt groaned. 

“i mean at least he’s not immediately dying.” dream piped up. 

“we need to go home.” schlatt sighed. wilbur shook his head.

“m’legs don’ work.” 

“greaaat.” 

“you walked?”

“yeah, and i’m too fucked to drive.” schlatt said, running a hand through his hair. 

“who’s sober?” sapnap turned to ask the room. all their friends exchanged glances, shaking their heads. 

“i can’t drive.” said niki. 

“nah it’s fine you can chill here.” sapnap assures him, “no one’ll come up here it’s vip.” 

dream gets up, stumbling over to the glass door to the room, and slides it shut. someone turns on music, coming up on the tv as ‘eret’s chill playlist’. ‘cigarette daydreams’ starts drifting through the speakers, and the song reminds wilbur of schlatt. everyone settles down, sparing wilbur concerned glances.

“yayyy.” slurs wilbur, leaning his head against the couch. he hears schlatt come and slump against the couch next to him. he smiles.

his vision is now going dark, and he knows he’s gonna pass out. in one final act, he reaches out into the darkness and searches for schlatt’s hand. he clumsily grabs it, and schlatt is sitting close enough for wilbur to feel him tense up minutely, then relax. he squeezes wilbur's hand back. it’s warm. in his drunken state, he decides to say fuck it and roll over to press his face into the other teen’s chest. schlatt stills for half a second, then slowly wraps an arm around wilbur, pulling him a little closer. wilbur just shoves his face further into schlatt and hums, succumbing to the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty for reading n hope u enjoyed <3 also psst u didn't hear it from me but im probs doing a tommy fic in this series  
> *cough cough* :)


	3. i hope it stays dark forever (i hope that i never get sober)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO GOD IS ALIVE uhh i haven't abandoned this fic, i was just struggling for inspo but what ur abt to read happened to me and i was like lol this trauma is good material~ anyways enjoy
> 
> tw // underage alcohol, drugs, hard drugs, graphic descriptions of being on drugs (i kind of triggered myself while writing this owo)
> 
> ALSO PLS THIS ISNT A SCHLATTBUR CENTRIC FIC IM LEAVING

the first thing he noticed was the splitting headache pounding in his skull and the warmth surrounding him. wilbur pried his eyelids apart, and squinted out at his surroundings. for a second he couldn’t remember where he was, vision blurring, but when he saw sapnap’s bright living room it all came flooding back. 

he was at a party. he got fucked…? at some point he ended up… on the floor cuddling with schlatt?

a blush erupted on his face as it registered just what the warmth was. he had his face fully pressed into schlatt’s chest, the other with his arms wrapped around wilbur’s middle. schlatt was asleep, eyelids fluttering gently. he looked peaceful. 

what the fuck.

they were also laying on the floor. wilbur shifted and winced when the consequences of sleeping on the floor became apparent. his neck ached, and his back from where it had been twisted into an awkward position. 

schlatt mumbled something in his sleep, too quiet to hear, and tightened his grip around wilbur, pulling him closer. oh god is this how he dies? his face felt extremely warm, and for that matter so did his whole body. he stared at the other boy's face, tracing his jawline and mapping his freckles like constellations. 

he heard the glass door sliding open and whipped his head around, beet red, slightly embarrassed to be caught like this, then regretted it when pain shot up his skull. was this hell? oh god what happened last night. 

“wilbur! you didn’t die in your sleep!” 

“uh-“ 

sapnap was wearing boxers and a t-shirt, dark hair mussed, having obviously just rolled out of bed. he was holding a glass of water and a bottle of painkillers. wilbur immediately reached out to him. 

“hand them over.” he demanded. 

“calm yourself.” sapnap grinned, walking over to him and flopping down on his knees. wilbur turned to get up, but realized a slight problem. schlatt wouldn’t let go. sapnap looked like he was trying not to laugh. 

“schlatt.” wilbur hissed, poking his cheek. the other teen sighed and rolled over a little, curling into wilbur. he felt warmth bloom in his chest, a small smile coming to his face. this idiot was gonna be the death of him. 

“wake up.” he said louder, pulling on his earlobe.

“hmm?” finally schlatt opened hazy eyes and stared at wilbur, looking a little confused. understandable considering last night. 

“can you, uh,” he looked down at their intertwined limbs, then back at schlatt. the other's eyes widened, and he immediately released wilbur, flushing red and backing against the couch. 

“oh god my head hurts like a bitch.” he said, a little abruptly but hey, if he wasn’t gonna address it, neither was wilbur. 

“here.” sapnap looked incredibly amused by the exchange, but he handed over the painkillers and wilbur threw them back a little desperately. 

“oh god.” wilbur put a hand to his head, wincing in pain, “i don’t even remember half of last night.” 

sapnap exchanged a glance with schlatt, then looked back at wilbur. 

“we think you were like, drugged dude.” he said carefully. wilbur choked. 

“drugged!?” 

“yeah, i’m pretty sure. you didn’t have that much to drink and you were acting pretty loopy.” he paused to grab the painkillers back from schlatt. “i’ve seen it before, so.” 

well. shit. 

“oh god and we have school.” he groaned, putting his head in his hands. he didn’t have any classes until the afternoon, but he felt like microwaved death. there was no way he could function. not without like ten monsters and a bottle of tylenol.

“not until afternoon.” schlatt sighed, leaning against the couch. 

“yeah but i feel like i died and was resurrected.” schlatt snorted.

“so, who’s still here?” he asked sapnap, gathering himself to stand.

“uh, you guys, dream, punz and-“ 

“sap?” came a sleepy voice from the door, and there stood karl, suspiciously wearing sapnap’s hoodie and just boxers. sapnap’s face grew slightly red when he saw the other boy, but karl just smiled and made his way over to them. 

“oh hey.” he mumbled, flopping down next to sapnap and burying his head in the other’s neck. obviously the boy was still half asleep, and wilbur smirked at sapnap’s flustered expression. 

“i’ll leave you to it.” he grinned, standing on shaky legs. schlatt got up too, smirking knowingly at sapnap who was turning a nice shade of scarlet. 

he peeked into the kitchen, light filtering in through large windows but atmosphere diminished slightly, being littered with empty red cups and beer cans and general trash. he made a face, and picked his way around it to the fridge. 

“i’m stealing sapnap’s coffee.” he said to schlatt, not turning around but hearing the other collapse into a chair. 

“my head is throbbing.” he groaned, “i’m gonna die.” 

“stop being dramatic.” wilbur laughed, “i was literally drugged.” 

“...true.” 

wilbur turned around, holding two glasses of sapnap’s ready made iced coffee. he handed one to schlatt who grabbed it and chugged, dark bags under his eyes apparent in the morning light.

“okay what does sapnap have for breakfast…” he said, mostly to himself. 

“i’m like, 99% sure i saw punz stealing a carton of eggs from the fridge.” 

“what?” he laughed, throwing his head back. he heard schlatt laugh as well. 

“you just wanna go to denny’s or something.” he giggled. 

“sure.” 

so they hauled their hungover asses over to sapnap’s living room again, schlatt going to search for his missing keys. 

“hey, we still on for tonight?” sapnap yawned. 

“yeah dude.” wilbur grinned. he saw schlatt give him a look in his peripheral. 

“you sure?” he spoke carefully, “last night was…”

“it’s fine.” wilbur brushed it off. schlatt shrugged and went back to searching for his keys. 

“cool.” sapnap nodded. finally schlatt pulled his keys out of the couch, stupid keychain jingling and motioned to wilbur.

“c’mon pretty boy.” 

blushing, wilbur followed. 

the day went by in a blur. they drove to denny’s, schlatt road raging and wilbur laughing at him. they parked and then schlatt threw open the door and puked on the pavement. (wilbur laughed at him again). they made it into the restaurant and shared a stack of pancakes, and stayed for two hours, getting dirty looks from the servers who technically couldn’t ask them to leave because they kept one soggy pancake on the plate. eventually one o’clock rolled around, and they had to leave for school but it all went by so fast wilbur doesn’t even remember what happened. it wasn’t important anyway. 

“shut up, a hot dog is not a sandwich.” wilbur rolled his eyes fondly at his dark haired friend sitting on the floor next to the bed.

“technically it is.” 

“how!?” 

“it has two pieces of bread on either side.” he argued. wilbur gave him a pointed look. 

“i think it has it’s own category… like, it’s just hot dog.”

“propaganda.” they both giggled at that, and at that moment phil peeked into the room. 

“um, yes?” wilbur coughed. 

“just checking you’re still going to sapnap’s at six?”

“yes… why?” 

“it’s six-thirty.” 

“oh fuck-“

“shit-“ they both scrambled up, grabbing their hoodies as phil laughed at them. 

“thanks dad! love you, bye!” wilbur yelped as they ran past him out of the house. they could probably afford to be a little late, but sapnap needed schlatt to supply some alcohol and some other shit. it currently clanked around in his totally- not-suspicious bag.

“dude what the fuck.” wilbur hissed, “that’s so loud.”

“shut it soot.” he whispered back.

the sky outside was a kaleidoscope of purple and blue, and they cast long shadows as they walked. it seemed like the perfect night for some teen rebellion. wilbur took a deep aching breath. 

“excited to get fucked?” 

“we literally do this every day.” wilbur laughed. 

“yeah, well, every time is special when it’s with you.” 

wilbur momentarily short circuited, making eye contact with schlatt. the dying light reflected on his face dark and waning.

“shut up.” he sputtered. schlatt just snorted. 

“i can hear sapnap’s dumb music from all the way down the block.” he said, changing the subject. it didn’t go unnoticed by wilbur. he decided to let it slide.

“he has… interesting taste.”

they kept walking, and wilbur observed the back of his head and thought that they’d had millions upon millions of moments yet somehow to him it would never be enough. he was addicted, he’d been addicted to so many things. schlatt was the worst. sometimes it physically hurt, not like a hole in his heart, but ice building up in his arteries. whenever his lungs ached for something more, he filled them with smoke, and drank until it didn't hurt anymore. it would leak through his veins and maybe he’d feel better. or maybe he’d wake up the next day with three missed calls from the one he was trying to escape from.

it never ends. 

even the streets seemed to mock him, he could almost see the overlay of warmer stained amber days, the corner where he fell of a bike and skinned his knee, the tree that tommy tried to climb and fell out of. where he threw up coming home from sapnap’s house. he frowned minutely. when had the transition begun between kid and almost adult. he remembers his first taste of alcohol, but does he remember his second? he remembers the first time he smoked weed, but does he remember when he started keeping it in his ceiling? does he remember when he started sniffing water bottles lying around before drinking them? does he remember when he started tensing up whenever his dad got close to the fake plant he kept in his corner?

questions questions, no answers. the answer was sapnap’s house coming up in his field of vision. 

“finally.” schlatt muttered. 

“mhm.” 

they didn’t bother knocking. sapnap wouldn’t mind, it was just a small gathering of his closest friends. still this would be a good fifteen people. they kick off their shoes at the door, and go into the living room and already are thrust into chaos.

“you made it!”

“schlatt! wil!”

“hey guys!” 

“no i won’t do coke with you fundy, what?”

“HELP”

“slow down, slow down!” wilbur laughs, tossing his jacket in the corner, “what’s going on?” 

“glad you made it! where’s my shit?” sapnap directed the last question at schlatt, who rolled his eyes good-naturedly. 

“calm down dumbass, it’s here.” he dug in his bag. wilbur wandered over to the couch, where alex and fundy sat, talking animatedly to dream. he looked very quizzical. as wilbur got closer he could hear dream speaking.

“i literally have never done anything harder then weed, i will not do fucking cocaine.” wilbur paused. what the fuck.

“uh what’s going on here.” he giggled, flopping next to dream. 

“wil. wilbur. wilby my sweet father.” fundy stared deep into wilbur’s soul, “will you do coke with us.” 

“i- what?” he sputtered, laughing, “maybe later?” what the fuck. 

“you’re no fun.” fundy sniffed, turning to the lines on the coffee table. wilbur stared. alex grinned at him.

“alright dream, enjoy your fucking indica.” wilbur stifled a laugh.

“now now alex, we don’t make fun of people who only smoke the worst type of weed.”

“i’m literally leaving.” 

“okay, when did the cocaine thing happen?” he paused, staring at the white powder being guided into lines with a five dollar arby’s gift card, “did i miss something or-“ 

“i got it from corpse.” fundy grinned, “i’ve never done it but first time for everything right?” 

“me neither.” alex chimed in. 

“me threeither.” they paused.

“oh, shut up dream.” they all burst into laughter, dream wheezing like he was dying of asthma. across the room schlatt made eye contact with wilbur and he felt himself crack a little.

“i need alcohol.” he said with a giggle, getting up, “i’ll be right back.” the cooler was across the room, and it took no time at all to reach it and grab an almost full bottle of the cheapest shittiest vodka one could buy. perfect. 

wilbur could swim very well. but tonight he was going to drown. 

wasting no time, he twisted the cap harshly off and took a long swig, and it burned his throat all the way down. 

“fuck.” he breathed, eyes watering. he watched from across the room as fundy and alex bickered on if you really had to use a dollar bill or not, watched as sapnap tapped dream on the shoulder and whispered something to him with a smirk. dream grinned and they both swiveled to glance at george, who was now trying to convince alex that he didn’t want to do coke. 

interesting. he took another swig as he watched sapnap flop onto the floor next to george and tell him something. george gave him a look. hm. wilbur turned to look on the other couch, where niki and eret chatted quietly. they weren’t much for partying, but as the designated mom friends they hung around. they’d probably end up holding someone’s hair back at the end of the night, or making sure someone didn’t die of alcohol poisoning in their sleep. fun things.

“hey guys!” came a cheerful greeting. wilbur snapped his head up to see skeppy entering the room with a suspiciously clinking bag, ant and bad in tow. 

“skeppy! you made it!”

“hey guys!”

“yo! skeppy! bad, ant!” 

skeppy giggled, setting his bag down in the corner and pulling out a pint of fireball. wilbur chuckled to himself. skeppy was fucking crazy, and his personality off drugs was already on the brink of being too much. he was incredibly fun. while he wasn’t someone wilbur interacted with a lot, they usually ended up doing some fucked up shit at these parties. he watched as bad cracked open a mike’s hard lemonade, and clinked it against skeppy’s bottle. wilbur got to his feet, and made his way over.

“yo, skeppy.”

“hey wilbur.” 

he glanced at skeppy’s bottle, then at his own and skeppy gave him a knowing grin. 

“c’mon chug with me.” 

“dude, i think you want me to die.” wilbur laughed, holding up his bottle. skeppy rolled his eyes as he clinked it against wilbur’s, and they both threw their head back and chugged.

the vodka didn’t burn as much, but it still tasted bad. the only reason wilbur drank it was because it got him drunk the fastest, and the drunker he was, the less bad it tasted. 

“fuck.” he gasped, wrenching the bottle away from his lips. across from him, skeppy was wiping his mouth and panting. 

“dude.” he giggled, “way to greet a guy!” wilbur snorted, patting skeppy on the back and walking away. the room was decently spinning, and he was feeling a little looser but years of binge drinking will fuck up your tolerance. and probably your liver. actually yes your liver, jesus christ. wilbur’s was probably fucked. ah, well. he took another short swig. 

wilbur walked over to the coffee table, which was covered in cocaine. classy. he idly wondered how it got to this point. fundy and alex now stared at it with mild apprehension.

“just fucking do it” wilbur heard sapnap encouraging them, “what is it, like carpe diem or whatever.”

fundy held the rolled up bill between his fingers, staring at the coke like it would tell him to snort it itself. 

“c’mon son.” wilbur grinned, sitting in front of the table.

“chop chop.” yelled sapnap, voice cracking, “i have places to be.” 

“fuck you.” fundy muttered, and in one fluid motion stuck the bill in his nose, bent over and sniffed deeply. everyone erupted into cheers, and fundy came back up blinking in shock. 

“o- okay.” he sighed shakily, handing the bill over to alex, “let’s see it.” there was powder dusted on his left nostril, and he brought his hand up to wipe it off. 

alex, to his credit, was much less hesitant about it. dream was filming it, and he flashed the camera a smirk before diving in. everyone cheered again. 

“woah.” he said blinking, wiping his nose, “fucking hell.” 

“you did it!” 

wilbur turned to look back at the ginger, and he was sitting, pupils blown and face flushed.

“bro,” he giggled, clutching the bottle, “fundy you good?” 

“i… yeah. good, good.” 

“okay, niki c'mere make sure they don’t die, wil, you wanna hotbox sapnap’s bedroom?” 

“fuck yes.” 

“it’s dripping down my throat!” 

“okay, give him some fucking juice.” 

wilbur turned to follow sapnap, dream and george up the stairs. he stumbled just a little bit, clutching the bottle as if it would steady him. 

“hey, can i join?” he half turned and schlatt was walking towards him. 

“the more the merrier.” sapnap proclaimed, leading the teens to his bedroom upstairs.

wilbur could hear the sounds of yelling downstairs, sounded like fundy and alex. someone was blasting party rock anthem. he rolled his eyes fondly. 

“alright.” sapnap opened the door to his room, and ushered them inside after him, closing the door, then headed straight for the bong on his nightstand. sapnap had his led lights on a nice shade of purple, and he had a rock salt lamp in the corner adding an amber glow to the atmosphere.

dream stuffed a blanket into the crack under the door, and george was standing awkwardly in the corner with his hands in his pockets. wilbur wondered how they convinced him to join. he knew george wasn’t too big of a smoker.

“right, come closer.” sapnap sat cross legged on the floor and put the bong in front of him. they all formed a circle around it, and he pulled out a pink sparkly grinder. wilbur snorted at the sight of it.

“shut up.” 

“i didn’t say anything.” he laughed. sapnap packed the bowl, and he offhandedly said,

“y’know, it’s funny to see everyone’s younger siblings following their paths.” 

“how so?” wilbur said curiously. not too many of them had younger siblings, niki had a little brother who was friends with tommy, and dream had a sister named drista but she was only ten. 

“well i thought i saw, uh, tommy? at the party the other day and i think i sold him a vape? the blonde one right? and ranboo was like nervously lurking like a mom friend and it really reminded me of you and niki.” sapnap casually said this as he packed the bowl with expert fingers. wilbur paused. 

“i- what?” he felt something twinge in his stomach, at the thought of his little brother with his fluffy blonde hair and his purple braces, with his long gangly limbs he didn’t know how to use yet. he shifted uneasily. 

“uhh,” sapnap laughed nervously, seeing wilbur’s expression, “should i not have?” 

“nah dude, it’s fine i’m not his babysitter.” he left the ‘but i’m his older brother’ unsaid. 

“bro, light it already.” dream poked sapnap, bouncing up and down where he sat. george still looked apprehensive, and schlatt looked bored. 

“alright, alright.” he pulled out his lighter and with practiced fingers lit the bowl and when he took a hit, he blew as much as he could into the still air in front of him. the led lights glowed a bright purple, and the smoke drifted towards the ceiling. it was mesmerizing and wilbur got lost in it until the bong was passed to him.

“wil.” schlatt jabbed his finger directly into wilbur’s cheek and he jolted back into himself.

“shit.” they all laughed as he grabbed the bong from schlatt, fumbling with the lighter and finally getting a decent hit.

“he’s already tipsy.” schlatt teased, and wilbur glared at him playfully.

“fuck off.” he said, smoke escaping through his teeth, and then he blew it at schlatt. the other teen just sucked it back up and wilbur wrinkled his nose. sapnap started playing some rap song in the background and the room slowly filled with smog. they kept passing it around until the bowl was finished, george refusing to take a hit most times it came around to him, but occasionally would. 

dream and sapnap were, admittedly, two of the biggest stoners wilbur had ever met. and it showed in the way they had finished an entire bowl and both of them didn’t seem high at all. to be fair, wilbur wasn’t feeling that high either. he really should take a tolerance break, he thought as they started on the second bowl. but then again, he couldn’t function without weed in his system. sort of unlucky, especially since for some reason when he mixed it with alcohol he had a strong reaction. but he kinda liked it anyways, and it would probably be so much worse without any. whatever. 

by now george was looking decently out of it, and he kept coughing. poor george, wilbur thought with a little laughter. he obviously wasn’t doing too good with the air filled heavy and thick with smoke. 

“guys, should i do acid.” dream sighed, breaking wilbur’s train of thought. 

“hell yes! i’ll do it with you.” sapnap giggled. 

“sure.” wilbur shrugged, “maybe i’ll join you.” 

“acid’s fun.” schlatt said thoughtfully, “i saw god in denny’s at five am and it was a giant floating mandela.” 

“bro.” sapnap breathed. 

“he took way too much don’t listen to him, the next thing he did was take off his clothes.” wilbur snorted, and schlatt gave him a look of betrayal. 

“i needed to be in my natural state.” 

“yeah, that’s acid in a nutshell.” 

“i wanna be in my natural state.” dream giggled, nudging sapnap, “next weekend?” 

“fuck yeah.” the excitable teen responded. schlatt raised an eyebrow.

“and you’re getting it from…?” 

“you?” 

“yeah fair, how many tabs.” schlatt sighed. they all laughed, then sapnap pulled out his wallet.

“dude just two i’m thinking.” 

“yeah probably wise, i took four that time.” he laughed, then shook his head at sapnap.

“that’ll be thirty, i don’t have them right now though.” 

“ah.” he threw his wallet somewhere behind him, then pulled out his lighter again, “bowl number three?” 

schlatt motioned towards the bong in response and sapnap just laughed and lit it again. they quickly went through the third bowl, and the air in the room was smoggy and smelled strongly of weed. 

“dude.” wilbur coughed a little, “i think i’m gonna cop out, might be doing coke later. and i’ll take george; he looks like he’s about to suffocate.” 

“help.” george said weakly from where he was leaning against sapnap’s bed. 

“aight cool. yeah take him, i think he might die.” sapnap giggled, packing the fourth bowl. 

“are we going to gloss over the fact that he just said he might be doing coke or-”

“ignore it.” wilbur said with a giggle, getting to his feet and taking the bottle of vodka with him. he went to the door and turned, waiting for george to get up and stumble to him.

“c’mon bottom.” wilbur teased, and george rolled his eyes.

“let’s just go.” he sighed.

“george bro you look fucking fried.” sapnap hollered from across the room. george just flipped him off as they exited, shutting the door quickly behind them as not to break the hotbox. 

wilbur breathed in the new air in the hall, and compared to the musky air in the room, the stale air of the hallway had never felt better to his aching lungs. 

”george you good there?” he stifled a laugh at the sight of george, eyes glossy and red, staring directly at a picture of sapnap’s parents hung up on the opposite wall. 

“i’m gonna go take a nap.” he mumbled, turning and walking into the spare room. 

“o- okay.” wilbur started to head back to where the action was, taking a long swig of the vodka. it tasted like water. that probably wasn’t a good thing. 

he could hear yelling over music, someone was playing the city girls and what sounded like skeppy and alex were desperately trying to rap it. he smiled to himself. 

when he entered the room it was, in short, chaos. there was karaoke up on the tv, and skeppy was using the now half empty bottle as a microphone. bad was cheering them on from the couch, on what was probably a second mike’s hard, ant next to him. niki was in the corner trying to get fundy to drink a glass of water, and eret was smoking a joint out of the open window. 

“what the fuck.” he said to himself, swaying slightly in the doorway. 

“oh hey wilbur!” came a familiar voice from the kitchen, and he turned to see karl heading into the room holding bags of chips.

“karl, you made it!” he smiled. 

“yeah, i had some homework.” he went over to the couch and wilbur followed, taking another swig of the vodka. in front of him the song finished, and both skeppy and alex collapsed to the floor panting. 

“err,” bad looked at wilbur and gestured towards the teens laying on the floor, “fundy came down like five minutes ago, but alex is still peaking.” 

“probably because he’s so short.” wilbur smirked.

“fuck off dickhead.” quackity wheezed from the floor. 

“i’m gonna throw up.” mumbled skeppy.

“oh don’t-” bad said, looking alarmed. 

“who wants to do shots.” wilbur shouted into the room.

“me.” skeppy slurred from the floor, raising one hand into the air. 

“oh no no no i’m cutting you off.” bad frowned. 

“let him live a little bit.” wilbur giggled. the image of skeppy was blurred around the edges, and it was almost lagging as skeppy pushed himself into a sitting position. he felt free. he felt free, unchained from all the thoughts that weighed him down every day he wasn’t attached to a bottle. maybe wilbur had a problem. so what? he was fine. his liver was less fine, but he didn’t really see himself living long enough for it to be an issue.

someone was placing a shot glass in front of him. he poured it full, and looked to skeppy, who had a shot of fireball clutched in his hand. 

“three, two, one.” he threw his head back and swallowed, and the vodka only tasted like water.

“skeppy you get me.” he giggled. there was a buzzing noise and it took him a second to register that it was his phone, and he fumbled for it in his pocket. 

**dadza, 9:17pm**  
how’s it going?

shit. the letters swam around in his vision and he giggled, taking another swig. 

**wilby, 9:18pm**  
great, dotn worryy :)

definitely not sus. 

he shoved his phone back into his pocket and sat back down next to karl. things were quiet for a couple minutes as everyone did their own thing. wilbur sighed, staring around the room. when he thought about it too much, it was scary how fast they grew up. the parallel of watching alex take his first cautious sip of alcohol back in ninth grade, younger and new to the intricacies of being a teenager, to now watching him giggle to himself high on cocaine was… sometimes it made him feel incredibly sad. there was a metaphor in there somewhere, but wilbur’s vision was blurry and he could barely string two thoughts together so, all there was to do was take another swig.

and then schlatt, dream, and sapnap came down the stairs bringing the smell of weed with them.

“finally back?” wilbur giggled, and schlatt came and sat next to him on the arm of the couch. 

“where’s george?” bad questioned.

“oh, dead.” sapnap said smiling.

“wh- what.” bad stuttered. sapnap ignored him, and instead layed down on the floor next to alex, who was looking quite dead. after a moment, dream joined him in laying down on the carpet.  
“you guys are boring and i’m not drunk enough.” skeppy announced, “wilbur you’re the only one who gets me.”

“wait… chug?” wilbur asked, smirk spreading across his face. skeppy laughed again, ignoring bad’s protests in the background, and picked up a bottle of sour puss that was sitting on the coffee table. wilbur tilted his bottle toward skeppy, grinning and in the background wilbur registered dream start to film. 

“let’s go then.” once again, he put the bottle to his lips. it had stopped tasting so strong very early in the night, so it was easy to chug. spurred on by the cheering, he had the hazy thought that he should finish the whole bottle. someone had to spice up the night, right? and it was usually him, throwing up on someone, or pissing on sapnap’s counter, or that one time when he shoplifted thirty dollars worth of kit kats from the corner store. (in hindsight, someone should really control him.)

the bottle came away from his lips again, and when he looked again it was empty, a little bit of clear liquid pooling at the bottom. he set it down heavily, blinking. people were cheering. skeppy was throwing up. oh. oh shit. fuck. he drew back, sudden flurry of movement from bad blurring across his field of view. 

“woah.” he slurred. skeppy started laughing when he finished, wiping his mouth. wilbur started laughing too. he heard dream wheezing in the background, still holding his phone up though he was bent over laughing. 

“bro, what?” alex wheezed, attempting to sit up, “what’s happening.”

“skeppy do you want water?”

“help.”

“alex are you back with us?”

“uh, barely?”

“what the fuck is happening?” 

“we should go outside.”

“hey wil, smoke break?” a hand cut through the static, coming to rest on his forearm. he turned in what felt like slow motion, and schlatt’s expression shifted from amusement to barely concealed concern.

“mmhm.” he nodded. things were blissful, here they were peaceful. it was like white noise blanketing all his senses, things flashing in and out of his focus before he could make sense of them. they left the chaos of the living room and stumbled into the breezy midnight air. he blinked and he was holding a cigarette loosely between his fingers, smoke drifting away lazily into the night sky. someone was next to him. they were warm. 

he thinks he might have stumbled to the kitchen, and leaned against the counter. thoughts didn’t exist, nothing did. he was in the living room, holding a dab pen. there was music in the background and he was dancing to it. It was all white, then he was sitting on the rug, knees folded underneath him.

“you wanna do it with us wilbur?

“sure!”

“wil are you sure-”

“here, gimme.” he saw himself staring down at the coffee table, eyes barely focusing on the thin white line in front of him. someone was telling him to do it. he does it.

colors flash by his vision, he’s giggling. why? why is he giggling? 

he’s never felt this happy since he was.... well, it doesn’t matter, because there’s euphoria dripping through his veins and warmth surrounding his whole body. 

he’s falling. dream is there. dream has his phone and the flash is on, and they’re both laughing. 

schlatt is there. he’s staring into dark brown eyes, alight with amusement and slight concern. he’s smiling. 

someone’s texting him. it takes five tries to open his phone, and he doesn’t even half know what the message says.

 **dadza, 12:48am**  
hows it going?

 **dadza, 12:54am**  
fell asleep? lol

 **wilby, 12:56am**  
naah ikm otsie

 **wilby, 12:56am**  
ouside*

 **wilby, 12:57am**  
fien!!!!!

 **dadza, 12:58am**  
?

“can someone sober text my fucking dad.” he slurs. 

**wilby, 1:02am**  
sorry, went for a walk and i dropped my phoen in a puddle, i think it’s fine tho? we are coming home soon :)

“bro, i’m high as fuck i can’t tell if that’s sus.”

 **dadza, 1:06am**  
alright! i’ll be in bed.

“i think it worked?”

“jeez wil what are you doing? no-”

 **wilby, 1:13am**  
okk

it’s all white noise. he feels time slipping away, static. static. where is he? he’s stumbling down the road. schlatt’s there, of course he's there. he’s always there. the asphalt is damp under his feet. he’s throwing up under the soft amber glow of a streelight.

they’re stumbling into the house. he knows he has to be quiet. A floorboard creaks under his foot, and he goes silent. the house is achingly empty.

he’s throwing up again, his arms leaning against the porcelain of the toilet. schlatt’s hovering. there’s a knock at the door, and schlatt whips his head around lightening fast. his phone is clutched in his left hand.

“who’s… you… okay?” their words are cutting out.

“no one.” schlatt sends a worried glance at wilbur. 

“what’s happening?” he mumbles.

“can… in?” he leans his head sideways against the toilet.

“wil, i’m gonna save your dumb ass, okay.” schlatt whispers in his ear. he hums in agreement.

the door creaks open, and someones talking. two people are talking. wilbur starts throwing up again, and someone rushes to his side. someone’s whispering reassurances in his ear. the lights flick on, and people are whispering. everything is white.

everything is white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AA LMK WHAT YALL THINK I FEEL LIKE IT WASNT THE BEST BUT EEEE MAYBE ITS JUST ME
> 
> also i feel like the timelines for this and be nice to me ARENT adding up but its OKAY LETS IGNORE IT AHAH


	4. and how could you stick that straw up your nose? (when you know how coke is manufactured?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEYYY ITS BEEN THREE DAYS AND I HAVE 4K WORDS what is wrong with me ITS EXAM WEEK  
> apparently my updating schedule is "disappear for months then upload twice in three days"  
> also its 3am  
> WAIT WHY HAVE I WRITTEN ALMOST A WHOLE BE NICE TO ME IN WORDS IN JUST THESE TWO CHAPTERS SEEYA
> 
> tw // throwing up, mention of alcohol, weed, drugs,

wilbur wakes up and he feels like absolute shit. the room is drenched in darkness, and his head spins as his eyes attempt to adjust. above all, he feels like he’s about to throw up. and huh, isn’t that familiar. he huffs a quiet laugh. probably shouldn't be funny to him. 

what happened last night? and again, that’s a thought he’s had a concerning amount of times over the years. he sits up, and swings his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the nausea welling up and the pounding headache at the base of his skull. his whole body feels like he got hit by a truck. maybe he did. he doesn’t remember much about last night. he pushes himself to his feet, and immediately gags, nausea surging up in his throat so fast it has him dizzy. he barely makes it to the bathroom and he’s throwing up, as quietly as he can. is this death? where’s schlatt? wilbur doesn’t remember how the night ended, but him and schlatt are more or less always together. that’s a little weird. speaking of… he wracks his brain for the last thing he remembers, and he thinks it was… were alex and skeppy doing karaoke? then he did shots? then… he frowns, wiping his mouth. did he… fall out a window? back it up a second. 

yikes, he’s gonna have to call someone. he sighs, grabbing the bathroom garbage can, and staggers back to his room. he doesn’t remember getting home last night, but he’s alive so eh. wilbur locks the door behind him with a harsh click, and goes to the drawer next to his bed. there’s a bottle of advil, and he pops five. it’s not like he hasn’t done worse. he washes it down with half a can of monster that’s just lying around, and collapses back into bed again. he really does feel like he’s been hit by a truck, jesus christ. on second thought, this is probably the worst hangover he’s ever had and that’s saying something. 

he feels a warm liquid start to drip from his left nostril and he stops. you’re kidding.

“don’t tell me i snorted fucking cocaine last night.” he sighs, wiping his bloody nose and rolling over to blindly grope at the bedside table for his phone. who would know? niki. niki would know. he resolves to text her when he finally finds his damn phone. did he fucking lose it? no, schlatt would’ve made sure he didn’t. schlatt’s not here but… no, he would’ve been with wilbur last night. he had to have been. 

once again, he forces himself out of bed, to the crumpled heap that is the jacket he was wearing last night. he sticks his hand in the right pocket and almost sobs with relief when he feels his phone. a quick inspection reveals that there’s a new crack down the side of it, but otherwise it’s okay, if dead, and he plugs it in before throwing himself into bed again. jesus. he brings his two fingers up to press into the pulse in the curve of his neck, and his heart is beating erratically. he grimaces a little. whatever the fuck he did last night, he feels like he’s been hit by a bus and thrown into a lake. 

his phone alerts him that it’s alive with a little buzz, and he sighs in relief. finally some answers. he unlocks it and sees that he has multiple notifications from various friends, opens the imessage app and immediately regrets it.

 **princess, 8:38am**  
pls call me asap

 **princess, 8:36am**  
wil?

 **princess, 8:23am**  
wake up bitch

 **princess, 7:56am**  
are you okay

 **karl's bitch, 6:27am**  
unless this is philza minecraft reading this in which case what illegal drugs ahah

 **karl's bitch, 6:23am**  
if you’re dead i’ll give you a refund

 **large q, 5:34am**  
wilbur have you died respond if ur alive xoxo

 **bbh's lover, 3:34am**  
wiblt re yyt; deewad im a ttle afraif ur daed oops

 **niki :), 2:12am**  
wil, where are you? :(

schatt seems worried, but wilbur’s not gonna call him yet. his eyes are starting to ache, and his head is getting worse with each second he keeps staring at the screen, but there’s twenty one unopened messages on the groupchat, and he wants to piece together what happened, so he scrolls to the start of the night and starts reading down.

**drug addicts and niki (princess, bbh’s lover, and (12) others)**

**karl, 7:46pm**  
gonna be a little late :)

 **niki :), 7:50pm**  
okay!!

 **eret, 9:34pm**  
where tf is george?

 **karl's bitch, 9:35pm**  
dead

 **dweam, 9:35pm**  
sleeping

 **eret, 9:37pm**  
ah-

 **egg stealer, 10:24pm**  
just got off work, too bad i couldn't come :( how's it going?

 **bbh’s lover, 10:28pm**  
i cant fele my fac e lol

 **furry, 10:28pm**  
bg

 **furry, 10:28pm**  
help

 **large q, 10:29pm**  
im havaing fun

 **karl’s bitch, 10:30pm**  
george is dead rip xoxo

 **dweam, 10:30pm**  
ant and bad are doing karaoke 

**dweam, 10:30pm**  
help

 **egg stealer, 10:38pm**  
i regret asking

 **karl’s bitch, 11:49pm**  
i’m greening 

**karl, 11:49pm**  
oh honk where?

 **karl’s bitch, 11:49pm**  
bathrom

 **karl, 11:51pm**  
bad bring me a water bottle

 **dweam, 11:56pm**  
simp

 **karl, 11:57pm**  
he’s dying???

 **language, 11:59pm**  
coming!! poor muffin >_<

 **dweam, 12:00am**  
CoMiNg PoOr MuFfiN 

**karl, 12:07am**  
omg 

**dweam, 12:00am**  
karl i once watched sapnap rip 7 dab pens then write a chem exam i think he’s invincible

 **language, 12:04am**  
what

 **wilbur, 12:42am**  
i i jsuy fuckin gstorted coke

 **egg stealer, 12:43am**  
????

wilbur cringes, momentarily dropping the phone and leaning his head backwards. he stares at the ceiling and just sighs. welp, guess he knows for sure why he feels like he got flattened by a semi truck.

 **princess, 12:45am**  
jesus wil, i leave you alone for 5 minutes

 **wilbur, 12:45am**  
miss y

 **wilbur, 12:45am**  
ahclatttt

 **wilbur, 12:46am**  
shclattieeeeee

 **princess, 12:47am**  
jesus christ im coming

 **bbh’s lover, 12:49am**  
I thinka i hav ealdcohol posionig lol

 **language, 12:50am**  
WHAT

 **language, 12:50am**  
where are you?

 **bbh’s lover, 12:57am**  
aa randme fuikcie field lol

 **british cunt, 12:59am**  
wtf

 **large q, 1:04am**  
i did anotehr line

 **large q, 1:04am**  
mistakes have ebeen made

 **niki :), 1:05am**  
fundy died, omw

 **dweam, 1:06am**  
sorry fundy what

 **niki :), 1:07am**  
oh, he passed out sorry! :)

 **dweam, 1:08am**  
LMAO 

**dweam, 1:08am**  
i just peed

 **dweam, 1:08am**  
thats not a joke

 **dweam, 1:09am**  
help

 **ant, 1:10am**  
??!?!!?!?

 **dweam, 1:11am**  
i feel compelled to mention wilbur fell out of a window

 **princess, 1:12am**  
WHAT

 **language, 1:12am**  
WHAT

 **niki :), 1:13am**  
WHAT

 **bbh’s lover, 1:14am**  
just made friends iwyth ann oppussom lol theyr kinsa lcool

 **language, 1:15am**  
WHAT

 **princess, 1:14am**  
WHAT

 **niki :), 1:15am**  
WHAT

 **wilbur, 2:01am**  
I loooove all og eu ur my bestets frieds :)))) <<<<33333

 **wilbur, 2:01am**  
dotn worry

 **eret, 2:01am**  
you okay?

 **niki :), 2:02am**  
wil??

 **princess, 2:05am**  
btw he’s w me, ev good

 **eret, 2:09am**  
jesus 

**princess, 2:38am**  
wilbur justgot caught by phil he sent me home

 **karl’s bitch, 2:40am**  
IT WASNT MY HSIT U HEA RME

 **princess, 2:42am**  
relax subpoena, i said he only had alc

 **karl’s bitch, 2:43am**  
SUBPOENA????

 **princess, 2:45am**  
yes

 **dweam, 2:46pm**  
shit i hope he doesnt get in too much trouble 

**princess, 2:50am**  
oh im so smart i said he had 3 beer n managed to convince phil he was a just lightweiht, and didnt eat all day 

**princess, 2:50am**  
wilbur had at that point passed out in the toilet so

 **princess, 2:52am**  
philza minecraft is not very smart ig

 **dweam, 2:58am**  
LMAO

 **language, 4:48am**  
skeppy is passed out in a random field someone help me >_<

 **language, 4:48am**  
(location sent)

 **ant, 4:50am**  
omw

 **karl’s bitch, 6:24am**  
do we know if wilbur’s alive?

 **princess, 6:25am**  
probs

 **furry, 7:29am**  
omg i blacked out at like 11 what’d i miss

 **large q, 7:32am**  
i

wilbur slowly put his phone down, grimacing. okay that was… somehow a lot worse, yet a lot better then he’d expected. according to schlatt, he’d managed to convince phil that wilbur was a lightweight. eh, he’d take it. better then his dad knowing he was on coke. yikes. he put his phone facedown on the nightstand. he wasn’t ready to handle the onslaught of snapchats just yet. he just knew there was several stupid videos of him floating around the friend group, and he just… ugh. 

he shoved his palms into his eyes, groaning. everything hurt. like, a lot. even his spine? how does one's spine end up in pain? he groans again, but this time because of the nausea swirling in his gut. 

this sucks, wilbur decides as he heaves into a trashcan. i’m never drin- okay, that’s a lie he’ll probably drink himself to sleep tonight if we’re being honest but he can temporarily pretend he’s learned his lesson. maybe if he were a bit younger, maybe if he hadn’t gone years of smoking almost daily and drinking sometimes twice as much. at least he’d quit nicotine (okay, for the most part) sometime last year. cigarettes had always been schlatt’s thing, and vaping his. he couldn’t smoke cigarettes because of his dreams to release an album. schlatt often pointed out that smoking weed was like, the same thing, but wilbur argued that they were very different.

anyways, point is, as he hears the familiar noises of his dad getting up, going downstairs and making coffee he realises he might have to confront him. or rather, his dad would be confronting him. he cringes.

wilbur had always kept up an image of being the perfect son, perfect brother, perfect person. he definitely wasn’t by any means, but he’d somehow managed to convince most people. including phil. he’d never been caught doing anything unsavoury, not when phil would be so disappointed in him. his oldest son, his golden child. 

it was a miracle he hadn’t been caught for this long. he sighs, rolling over on top of his sheets. to be honest, wilbur felt sort of a quiet numbness at the thought of being caught. he knew that if phil searched his room he wouldn’t find anything, his weed hidden in the roots of a tree by the old dock, and his alcohol inside the plant in the corner of his room. whatever, he thought dismally. i don’t care, and i doubt anything could make me. 

and with that thought, he was gagging into the trash can again.

if he’d been younger, (and he finds himself thinking that a lot lately) this hangover would be decimating him. if only he’d been younger, hair fluffy and silver braces, (he’d only gotten them off in ninth grade) and just the right amount of charming and awkward (before he realized he didn’t care), it probably would’ve pounded in his head harder, punched him in the stomach harder.

while logically he knows that his first hangover would, to wilbur now be nothing, he remembers it being so much worse. after that it was never the same. a lot of things are never the same, not after the first few times. he frowns. right, that’s a bit too existential for a saturday morning at, what is it, ten pm. he has better things to do, like slam a couple gravol and go downstairs to face the wrath of philza minecraft. he snorts at that thought, the inside joke between most of their friends calling his dad by his minecraft gamertag. the man in question has no idea, and it’s fucking hilarious. 

shooting a quick text to the group chat to let them know he hasn’t overdosed, he prepares himself to limp to the bathroom in search of drugs (not the fun kind).

 **wilbur, 10:16am**  
good news i am alive, going to face philza minecraft

at once he sees the text bubble to indicate someone's typing, then two messages come in with a woosh.

 **niki :), 10:16am**  
yayy! glad ur okay

 **large q, 10:16am**  
philza minecraft oh no

with a grin, despite the incredible pain his body is in, he walks slowly to the door, because yikes he did not want to hurl on the floor in front of tommy’s room and too much movement would be a step in that direction. he discreetly shuffles to the bathroom, because he knows there’s a half empty bottle of the anti-nausea meds in the first aid kit and he doesn’t particularly want to explain to phil why he’s desperately shoving four down his throat if he went to the medicine cabinet downstairs.

a quick scan of the first aid kit reveals the bottle and he wrenches it open and swallows four of them dry. he shoves it back in place and buries the first aid kit deep behind bottles of soap and facial razors back where it should be. he splashes some cold water on his face and fluffs his hair up a little, and there, at least it was i just woke up bad, not i just went on a bender and got hit by a car bad.

right, time to face the man himself. wilbur hesitates at the doorway for a few minutes, long enough to feel the gravol start to work and the nausea ebbing away. it was still there but at least he felt like he could move without throwing up. whatever, he decides, and with a sudden burst of confidence turns the handle and exits the bathroom.

the hallway is silent, the doors to both of his brothers' rooms shut. the light from the window at the end of it was filtering in, making a square of white light on the hardwood. he stares at it and clenches his jaw. it’s fine. it’s fine. he’s fine. he’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie that he definitely wasn’t wearing when he went to sapnap’s, and he idly wonders if he changed when he was still drunk and just doesn’t remember it, or if someone else had changed him.

stalling, his brain singsongs. with a huff he starts descending the stairs, mindful of all the places where they were creaky. it was an old house, and he’d learned all the places that made noise very early on. when he gets to the bottom, he hovers there for a second. he can hear his dad in the kitchen, humming to himself. the smell of coffee wafted toward his nose, and his stomach gave a warning lurch. he told it to shut up. bright light streamed in through all the windows, hardwood floors warmed thanks to central heating and calming silence except for phil shuffling around. he took a deep breath, and his lungs shuddered, closed his eyes for a brief moment as if gathering strength for the next interaction.

his feet carried him into the kitchen. his dad was standing behind the counter, wearing a minecraft creeper apron and cracking an egg into a bowl. he steeled himself, and made a little noise in the back of his throat to alert the man to his presence. phil looked up, and when he saw who it was he stopped what he was doing and scanned him up and down with slightly furrowed brows and a thin lip. apparently he must’ve decided wilbur didn’t look like he’d been doing hard drugs, because his face broke into a relieved smile and he pulled wilbur into a hug. wilbur stiffened, then relaxed, gripping his dad’s shoulders and burying his face in phil’s neck.

sometimes you just needed a hug from your dad, okay?

after a long while, phil pulled away but kept a loose grip on wilbur’s shoulders.

“we need to talk.” 

wilbur immediately cringed at those words, sheepish expression coming to his face.

“okay.” what else could he say? phil (still wearing the fucking apron) went and sat in one of the stools, and patted the one next to him as an invitation. wilbur reluctantly sat in it. 

“so i think you know what this is about.” phil started, sympathetic but unwavering. wilbur nodded, ducking his head down as slight embarrassment colored his cheeks. yikes. 

“so, tell me what happened.” wilbur looked him in his eyes momentarily, and he just raised an eyebrow.

“well, uh,” he starts, swallowing, “i was at sapnap’s house right, and uh, there was beer and i, uh, had some.” his voice gets progressively quieter as he speaks, staring at the floor. phil didn’t need to know that he felt no shame, just an empty pit inside his ribcage. he wasn’t necessarily sorry, but distantly he recognized it must’ve worried his dad a lot, and he did feel slightly bad, but not nearly enough. not nearly the normal amount. 

“how many?” phil’s voice is calm, non accusatory. good when raising foster kids.

“three.” there’s a pause and phil nods slightly. 

“well that checks out with what schlatt told me, so” he sighs. wilbur stares holes in the tile beneath their stools.  
“wil, look at me.” he says gently. wilbur raises his own eyes to meet his dad’s, and he sighs again.

“i’m not mad,” wilbur finishes the sentence in his head ‘just disappointed’, but surprisingly he doesn’t go in that direction.

“i’m not mad, because i understand that you’re a teenager, i mean you're seventeen now, and it’s not…” he purses his lips, as if searching for the right words, “it’s not wrong for you to be curious, and want to try things like that, but all i want is… all i want is for you to be able to come to me and tell me that you, y’know, might be drinking that night and i’ll totally be on board. and y’know, be mindful of your tolerance mate jesus christ.”

wilbur laughs at that, half forced and half because oh god, his tolerance. right, yeah be aware of his tolerance for alcohol. like he doesn’t take a shot of fucking everclear every morning before school for “will to live”.

“you’re not… mad?” he looks at his dad with a carefully crafted look of embarrassment and sheepishness. phil smiles, and pulls him into another hug.

“it’s alright, i’m not mad. just… don't do that again please.” he laughs, a breathless and relieved sound that lifted all the guilt wilbur might’ve been feeling right off his shoulders, and wilbur hugged him back.

“being drunk isn't that fun anyway.” he mumbled, a blatant lie. just another one to add to his growing list, among others like “i’m okay” and “nah weed isn’t addictive”.

“are you hungover at all?” phil asked, concern showing in his eyes. wilbur shook his head.

“nah, i don’t think it was enough.”

“good. oh! and don't ever. drink on an empty stomach, wil.” he scolded lightly, and wilbur flushed red again. phil might have thought it was embarrassment for his “lack of knowledge” towards alcohol, but he was just remembering every time he’d had a shot instead of breakfast, or lunch. or dinner, wow wilbur had unhealthy habits. 

“right” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. his stomach lurched uncomfortably. 

phil got up and went back to cracking eggs, and wilbur grabbed a granola bar and the carton of orange juice and just booked it. well, as fast as he could without throwing up anyway.

when he got back to the safety of his room, he locked the door behind him and nearly collapsed with relief. jesus christ that was intense. though he didn’t fully care about his problems, he cared about how they affected his family. and he’d never had them… know. so, huh. guess he could still feel guilt. interesting. he sits on his bed, checking the group chat as he starts guzzling orange juice straight from the carton. (who even uses cups anyway).

 **furry, 10:26am**  
good luck soldier

 **princess, 10:39am**  
I SAID CALL ME IDIOT

oh shit, that’s right schlatt wanted him to call. he decided he at least needed to assess the damage before he went any further. he opens snapchat. now, he’s pretty sure that techno was on dream’s private story which could pose a problem, but he’s pretty sure tommy wasn’t. small miracles. with a sigh, he taps on it and turns up his volume.

the first video is something he does recall, which is alex snorting coke off sapnap’s coffee table. he taps to skip, and the next video is wilbur and skeppy chugging, and he cringes. it’s all hazy at that point, but he vaguely remembers how drunk skeppy was. the video zooms in on wilbur finishing the rest of bottle, and yikes, he thinks as he remembers that he drank a whole bottle. he rarely does that, especially having snorted cocaine that same night. that’s… not gonna dwell it. yikes, next video. 

the next video is wilbur falling out a window. ah, alright. that’s why he’s so sore. he replays the video again, and it shows a very drunk wilbur crawling out of the second story window of sapnap’s house. he just drops like a fucking rock, and dream rushes forward giggling, and aims the camera at the ground where wilbur is sitting up in the bushes looking very disgruntled. dream starts wheezing, and the video cuts out. ah. welp, weirdly not the first time he’s jumped out a window but this time hurt more. yikes. one more tap shows a video of sapnap laying facedown on the bathroom floor, karl kneeling near him. the caption just reads ‘mans ascending’. wilbur snorts. the next post was just a blurry shot of fundy passed out on the floor with alex wearing a pair of sunglasses and flashing a peace sign. and that was it. 

alright, he sighs. nothing too bad, nothing he couldn’t live down. this was fine. he closes the app, and for good measure his phone, tossing it onto the bed. in the other room he can hear tommy getting up for the day and unexpectedly his heart lurches when he remembers what sapnap had told him last night.

tommy was just so… young. he didn’t deserve to have his life ruined by a nicotine addiction. he absently unwraps the granola bar and takes a bite. tommy was way too young, and it made wilbur feel oddly protective. unwittingly he imagines tommy getting out of breath halfway up the stairs, imagines him breathing deep and only feeling tightness in his sternum where his youth used to rest. he imagines how his money would slowly bleed out of his bank account, how the color would leave his face day by day. he frowns. 

for his own issues, he doesn’t… care. he knows he’s ruining his lungs, his liver, his brain. he’s halfway to hoping it kills him. he’s not actively suicidal but… 

but for tommy? it hurt him deep inside, in a place he thought he couldn’t feel anything anymore. he takes a thoughtful swig of orange juice, grimacing to himself. he’s never considered the pain of watching your younger sibling turn into something unrecognizable. 

but still, how could he tell? it would be so hypocritical of him, lying to phil’s face like that, then telling him about tommy’s problems as if he wasn’t worse. hm. 

it’s fine, he tries to convince himself. it’s fine. he still needs to call schlatt, and get the full story about what happened. there’s a black hole, a blank space in his memories. he’ll do that, then probably take a nap. he wants to recover from this hangover asap, and he still feels like he’s been hit by a semi truck. after he calls schlatt, he’ll sleep off the nausea, he decides. then he’ll feel better. that’s what he’s infinitely chasing, huh? feeling better? he smiles bitterly, and picks up his phone. if tommy was chasing that, he’d learn soon enough that it was never ending. it stretched infinitely before him, and wilbur knew that only the void waited for him. he was going to die here, suspended in limbo. he would never feel better, and he can pretend all he wants. he knows the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOPE U LIKED AHAHA also i could've waited but its Physically impossible for me to finish a chapter and not post it that day hashtag no impulse control


	5. what was your thought when you realized you'll never feel naive love again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO I AM BACK i speedran this shit and i have so many ideas for this story so BUCKLE TF UP
> 
> tw // vaping, drugs mention, dissociation from outside pov

when tommy gets in the car, wilbur turns down the ajj that’s violently blasting his eardrums off and twists all the way towards him. it’s a monday afternoon, and wilbur’s hot and tense and not in the mood. the boy in question blinks quizzically at him, clutching his backpack in front of him.

“hey big man how was your day?” tommy starts, looking fully ready to sweep under the rug why wilbur was staring at him so intensely. 

“good, you?” wilbur says after a moment, putting the car in drive and starting to weave around the cars in the parking lot.

“good, good.” tommy says nervously. he’s not going off on his usual rant about this and that and tubbo and ranboo, so he must sense the tension. 

they get a few metres down the road before wilbur decides he needs to say something, or it would haunt him

“so,” he stares straight ahead, “ i wanted to bring up something, and before i say this, don’t freak out okay?”

“...okay?” tommy says apprehensively.

deep breaths. “are you aware that i’m quite close with sapnap?” out of the corner of his eye, he sees tommy go rigid.

“...i wasn’t, no?”

“so like, i heard something interesting about you, actually!” he says, obvious fake enthusiasm. he feels way too high strung for this, and his fingers are tapping guitar chords on the steering wheel.

“yeah?”

“first of all, i can’t believe you let sapnap scam you.” he laughs, a bitter sound that he can half control, and tommy is visibly confused.

“what?”

“you heard me.” he laughs again, gripping the steering wheel harshly. god, he’s shaking, isn’t that pathetic? he hasn’t smoked in two days, not wanting to arouse suspicion in phil by going out. but maybe…? god is it wrong to ask your thirteen year old brother to pass the nic?

eh, probably. 

“can i,” he chokes on the words, as if his body is against it, “here, give me a hit.”

tommy looks like this is the most surreal moment of his life. it’s just another step in the downward spiral for wilbur. he stares for a beat too long, and wilbur gestures at him.

“uhh, right, sure?” he fumbles for the vape in his pocket, handing it over with a look of pure confusion.

“god.” wilbur breathes, and takes what feels like the longest hit of his goddamn life. its been a while since he last had nicotine, but he needs something to calm his shaky nerves. god he should smoke. 

“wow.” tommy says, barely concealed awe. wilbur snorts and blows a smoke ring toward the roof of the car. kid hadn’t even seen someone take a long hit, his lungs probably couldn’t handle it. wilbur takes another long hit and he thinks he can feel the nicotine enter his bloodstream, rushing through his fast pumping bloodstream into his skull.

“oh shit.” he gasps, ripping his foot off the gas, “nic rush.” he almost forgets he’s not with his friends who are quite used to the driver randomly slamming on the breaks due to a sudden headrush. no he’s with his kid brother who looks slightly alarmed at the words. his vision twists, going blurry and his head spins. it’s fucking euphoria. 

“jesus tommy how much is in this.” he gasps. if he can get a nic rush from this in like two hits, what in the fuck has it been doing to tommy?

“sapnap said like seventy or something.” tommy mumbles

“seventy?!” what the fuck?

“is that a lot?” he asks, looking a little unsure.

“well put it this way, i’ve vaped a fifty since ninth grade.” he laughs. (he ignores the part of his brain that whispers ‘not anymore’) tommy’s eyes widen.

“okay what the fuck is going on?” he says desperately, gripping his hoodie sleeves. well, wilbur didn’t give him much explanation before stealing his nicotine and getting head rushed on the way home on a monday afternoon. oops. he supposes he’s been disoriented. 

“right, i just…” he sighs, “sapnap told me he sold you a vape and not gonna lie i was like ‘what the fuck’, but i’m no snitch. it would be incredibly hypocritical of me, considering the shit i do.”

“the… what do you do?” he says furrowing his brow. wilbur laughs humorlessly and steps on the gas again.

“don’t worry about it toms.” tommy looks a little confused, but nods.

“oh, and i won’t tell phil on two conditions.” tommy tenses again.

“you give me this and i’m going to get you another one from sapnap, one with lower nic. i’ll give you your thirty back, and i keep this, mmkay?” he hasn’t owned nic in so long. he thought this was behind him, but nothing ever is, it it?

“sure.” tommy agrees surprisingly easily. huh. he pockets the vape, fingertips pleasantly buzzing and already he feels so much better. 

“word of advice,” he starts, in a much more lighthearted tone, “sapnap is nine times out of ten trying to scam you.” tommy barks a laugh and wilbur giggles and things are back to normal again. but…

“toms,” he starts, unsure, “if you’re gonna buy drugs come to me okay? i’d rather i know it’s safe then have you get it from someone else.” he can’t do this. it’s gonna break him. he can’t… 

he has to. he’s knowledgeable, tommy isn’t. he knows what certain drugs should look like, or smell like, or what to do if you’re overdosing, and this and that. if he has to become tommy’s drug dealer in order to know he’s safe, well…

eh, he’s going to hell anyway.

“alright.” tommy says, and he’s uncertain. deep down underneath layers of flesh and sinew, wilbur is too.

i’m sorry dad, he thinks. forgive me. 

“welp, there we go.” he forces a laugh. “family bonding quota filled for the week.” tommy laughs again, and smoke fills the spaces between them. 

wilbur does his best to keep the rest of the short car ride as lighthearted as possible, and it seems to work as they both scream modern baseball at the top of their lungs with all the windows down. he feels free, wind whipping his and tommy’s hair around. 

they stop at the gas station for monster, wilbur getting the white one and tommy getting pipeline punch. like the kid needed more fucking caffiene, he already acted like he drank ten a day. they cracked them open and clinked them together, and he tried to forget he’d agreed to be his baby brother’s drug dealer. it’s all to protect him, he tries to reassure himself. it’s to protect him. 

“wil, can you make me s'mores dip” tommy says suddenly as they walk up to the front door. 

“why should i?” he smirks.

“wilbur please, phil banned me from the stove.” he begs, holding back a smile. wilbur tries to look neutral, but a wide grin threatens to split his face. 

“fine gremlin.” he sighs. they enter the house, throwing off their shoes in the doorway and going to the kitchen. 

“where’s techno?” tommy asks, one eyebrow raised as wilbur grabs a pan out of the cupboard.

“oh, he’s sick. stayed home, he’s probably upstairs.” he hums, grabbing the chocolate and marshmallows.

“i’m gonna go bother him.” tommy says evilly, racing out of the room.

“you don’t need to try hard to do that.” wilbur calls after him, chuckling softly. what a case. and see, this was partly what made him so uncomfortable at the thought of tommy going down the same path he was. tommy was so… bright. wilbur would die to keep him like that. maybe it’s a side effect of being the oldest. he just wanted to protect them, hell, techno too. 

he hears tommy scrambling back into the kitchen with a shout of “technooo come hereeee”, and half turns to see his other brother enter. in the back of his mind, he registers the dead look in techno’s eyes and is taken aback, thinks oh that’s not good. he’ll dwell on that later.

“tommy literally begged me to make him s'mores dip, since he’s not allowed to use the stove after the incident.” he giggles, plastering a wide grin on his face. 

“hey! i’m a cooking genius.” tommy yells, flopping down at the table. techno follows suit, sitting down opposite to him. 

“ah, so that’s why the kitchen was on fire.”

“it was just a new cooking method.” tommy says indignantly, and that got a snicker out of techno. wilbur smiles where they can’t see him, putting the pan in the oven. 

“so how was your day gremlin.” he feels uncharacteristically soft as he ruffles tommy’s hair, and he yells and wiggles out of his grasp.

“don’t manhandle me wilbur, i am a man,” he huffs, golden hair all messed up. wilbur thinks it’s kind of adorable. “and my day was great! me and tubbo are doing a project for science and…” 

he rambles on, and to be honest wilbur’s half-paying attention but he feels such a rush of affection for his little brother that he can’t speak without fear of just going ‘awwwwwww’, and he wasn’t sure tommy would appreciate it that much. tommy’s talking about biology, and ranboo forgetting that they were dissecting a worm mid-cut and panicking then throwing a scalpel at purpled by accident. wilbur’s a little concerned for these kids.

the oven beeps, and out of the corner of his eye he sees techno flinch violently, hand jerking up to grab the base of his skull. wilbur shoots him a concerned look, but gets up to shut it off. what’s that about? he turns back around, carrying the pan and techno’s fully just face planted into the cool wood of the table. right. he frowns, coming up to put the dip on the table, then puts a hand on techno’s shoulder.

“are you good?’ he asks, and he hears the concern leaking through his own tone. he exchanges a glance with tommy, who looks a little concerned as well. 

“mhmm.” he mumbles, and wilbur doesn’t miss the way he flinches from the hand on his shoulder just a beat too late. “just sick”

“eugh get away from me.” tommy sniffs, “i don’t want him to get me sick.” wilbur shakes his head at tommy, shooting him a look. not the time, even if he was hiding his worry with a joke. 

“have you eaten today?” he asks, switching the topic. he has a sneaking suspicion of the answer anyway.

“no” he says to the table, predictably. wilbur suppresses the sigh, barely, but cant help but roll his eyes. these idiots. they were all a mess weren’t they?

“jesus christ, okay fucking eat idiot.” he slides a plate of graham crackers at him, and notes with distaste that techno’s looking… skinnier. his wrist looks like he could wrap his hand all the way around it and still have room. 

“thanks.” he mumbles. tommy and wilbur exchange another glance, then tommy starts talking again, as he goes gradually increasing in volume and gesticulation. wilbur chimes in occasionally, to say shit like ‘sorry, tubbo set what on fire?’ and ‘ranboo walked in on dream and illumina doing WHAT NOW?’ distantly he notes that techno’s just staring off into nothing, face totally blank of emotion. that’s… concerning?

“hey tech?” he interrupts tommy’s tangent to look closely at techno’s blank face. there’s no recognition behind his glazed pupils. tommy catches on, staring with a frown.

“is he okay?” 

“i… don’t know.” he admits. 

“you good big man?” tommy (ever tactful) waves his hand back and forth under techno’s nose. something flickers in his dull gaze, and he blinks and slowly drags his gaze up to tommy’s face.

“uhmm.” his breathing seems to pick up, and he blinks rapidly. shit. wilbur’s halfway to doing… something, maybe gently grabbing the hands that were digging the nails into his exposed wrists, but before he can even move, the teen jolts up like he had been shocked.

“i’m just sick.” techno says, and wilbur pretends not to notice how his voice breaks. “dunno where i caught it.” 

“maybe you should go to bed.” 

“mhmm.” and with that, he gets up, stumbling a little, and escapes up the stairs. they sit there in silence for a moment, at loss for words. they hear the door slam, and in another life maybe they would’ve followed him, maybe they would’ve cried and talked about their feelings or something. but it’s this life, and wilbur feels like he’s losing his grip a little too much to be allowed anywhere near him.

“that was…” tommy breaks the silence, looking so out of his depth that it hurts wilbur to see it. they were all out of their depth weren’t they?

“yeah.” he isn’t a good person, he thinks, as the vape weighs heavy in his pocket. he’s not gonna go up there, and he knows that a good brother would. but he’s never pretended to be one of those. techno would probably just tell him to go away anyway. 

he takes another hit of the vape and blows the flavored smoke towards the ceiling and thinks about how easy it is to go back to bad habits. what does that say about his resolve? he always used to say that he could stop if he wanted to. of course i’m not an alcoholic fundy, just give me the fucking vodka. schlatt i’m sorry i smoked a whole pack of your cigarettes in a night, i was sad. sapnap i’m not dependent, yes i know i go through like six grams a week. it’s fine, he’s fine. 

is he? was he really ever over it if that easily he can succumb to it without a second thought? it’s so easy. and it feels so good.

the door opens, phil’s keys jingling and wilbur hastily shoves the vape back in his pocket. jesus christ, he’ll spiral into that mental hole later. him and tommy share one last look, before phil rounds the corner smiling. 

“hey guys! how was your day?” and tommy launches into the story again. wilbur just shakes his head and leaves for his room. he’ll have to ask sapnap about the vape for tommy, he knows he’s not letting the kid touch anything over thirty. he’s not even sure sapnap would have anything under forty actually. should probably text him. 

he collapses on his bed, sighs and thinks of the fucking day its been. as of now, he’s officially tommy’s drug dealer and a witness to… just everything. it’s way too late to say anything now. all he can do is just… hope tommy keeps his word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kinda feel like it got bad at the end NAYWAYS HOPE U LIEKD GANG GANG


	6. if good boys smoke good drugs, then consider me an angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonjour onhonhonhon i'm back
> 
> tw // smoking weed, mentioned other drugs, explicit self harm

up here, is where wilbur thinks his favorite place is. even though it’s freezing, and they really could've smoked out of the attic window, there’s a sense of familiarity with sitting perched on the eaves. the view was quite pretty too, when it was night the milky way was splattered clear across the inky sky.

“did you know tommy’s vaping?” he surprises himself by voicing the thought, head tilted towards the dying sky. schlatt, who’s rolling a joint, looks up in surprise.

“oh. wow.” he laughs, “following in your footsteps?”

“i don’t want him to.” he says listlessly. schlatt raises an eyebrow.

“really? i’m not sure you can judge wil.” he pointedly looks at the vape clutched in his left hand. 

“i don’t want him to... be like this.” 

there’s a beat of silence.

“...yeah, dude we’re fucked.” this startles a harsh laugh out of wilbur. schlatt chuckles a little, sitting cross legged higher up on the roof. wilbur is sitting with his feet precariously dangling off the drain pipe, three storeys up. 

it’s a long way down, and wilbur gets dizzier the longer he stares at the cement below. if there was a little more wind… 

nevermind. 

the thin yellow sweater he’s wearing does next to nothing to block out the chill. the summer is truly dying, the leaves on the trees starting to turn shades of scarlett and auburn. another summer past and he has no idea what he’s doing with his life.

it's really really high up. 

“joint’s ready.” schlatt calls to him, and he finally gets up, scrambling up the rough shingles to where schlatt sits. 

“god i need this.” he mutters, flicking his lighter as schlatt hands him the joint. schlatt has his own, and they both light it and take a hit at the same time. 

the smoke flooding in his lungs feels so good, especially after a three day tolerance break. that was all he could stomach, really, and he had nicotine to get him through it.

“do you remember when we first smoked.” he sighs, looking back out at the neighborhood below. 

“yeah.” wilbur looked back and schlatt had a lopsided smile on his face, staring out at the horizon, “we were so stupid.” 

“sapnap had the good shit even then.” schlatt giggles at that, and smoke escapes his mouth and drifts into the sky. 

“remember how scared we were that we were gonna get caught?” he smiles, albeit a little sadly. 

“god yes, we fucking took showers the next morning and everything.” wilbur lays back on the roof, joint held loosely between his long fingers.

“that summer was the best.” 

“hey, do you remember the second time we ever smoked?” wilbur says suddenly. weirdly it feels important to him, as if it would somehow lead him to how they got here.

“huh. no, i don’t.” he says thoughtfully, taking another hit. 

“right.” 

schlatt lays down next to him, and they both stare up at the stars. it feels like forever since they had sat in sapnap’s bedroom choking on their first joint while sapnap laughed. it has been a pretty long time since they were that young.

“i don’t… know what i’m doing with my life.” he admits.

“me neither.”

“we’re supposed to know huh? we’re in grade twelve? we’re supposed to be applying for universities and shit right?” 

“yeah…”

“and i just…” he trails off, not knowing how to finish that sentence. 

“...don’t know where you’re supposed to be going.” schlatt offers up.

“no. i don’t” they stare at the sky in silence, smoking. wilbur just didn’t know where to begin, he knew he wanted to go somewhere, but he still felt like a fucking kid. he was finally seventeen years old, and it felt like only seventeen years old. why does he feel so small?

“we’re gonna be fine.” schlatt breaks the silence. wilbur blows smoke towards the sky and answers back.

“i don’t think so.”

the wind picks up as he says this, snuffing out the lit end of the joint. he stares at it in dismay. 

“jesus.” schlatt mutters, flicking his lighter uselessly. the wind whips around his dark hair and makes him look like he’s the center of the fucking universe. it fucks with wilburs head quite a bit. 

“i think we gotta go inside.” wilbur mumbles over the whistling of the wind. it’s starting to unnerve him, especially since they’re sitting up here in the dark.

“mhm.” the other agrees, and starts maneuvering his way down the roof, still clutching the joint. he hops down and climbs into the attic window, and wilbur follows but stops for a minute to look out over the neighborhood. the window is facing schlatt’s backyard, so most of what he can see is a shit ton of trees. beyond those, to the left however is the road that snakes through the suburbs and to his house. he can even see the roof of spanaps house barely visible over the treetops. he stares, and an unknown emotion fills his chest. before he can think about it too hard, he’s clambering in after schlatt.

“c’mon dumbass.” schlatt gestures for him to hurry up, holding the relit joint. 

“it’s fucking cold out there.” wilbur shivers. the attic has a much more welcoming atmosphere then the roof, and it’s much warmer compared to the wind whipping around their hair and their clothes. wilbur idly wonders if it would be strong enough to make him lose his balance.

“dude we’re fucked.” he says, as if it would make it better. he was just voicing the truth he’s known for a while, and that is that he’s completely fucked. be it in the head, in life, in general, and that’s the one thing he can’t escape. he’s fucked.

schlatt just nods in reply, looking out the window. his elbow is perched on the windowsill, his chin resting on his hand as he blows smoke into the cool evening air. his parents aren’t home, so luckily it doesn’t matter much if wilbur lights his joint a few feet away, sitting on some boxes and drawing his knees to his chest. 

it’s so sad, he thinks, because he smoked this morning when it was still dark outside, because fucking tommy gets up at the crack of dawn and he’d definitely be suspicious. he smoked this morning so he could get through the day without yelling at his dad, or throwing his phone at the wall, etcetera etcetera. everything pissed him off unless he had the blanket of a slight high, hell, he couldn’t eat unless there was thc in his veins. the last three days had been literal hell, because he felt sick so he couldn’t eat, but if he didn’t eat it was worse. moral of the story, just be high twenty-four seven, because it felt better than his natural state.

the first joint was just a little stub and already he felt so much better. he walked over to the window and tossed it out. schlatt took one last hit before he tossed his as well.

“i gotta go piss, you can start on yours.” the other boy said before disappearing out of the attic door. wilbur turned to find the rest of the joints laying on the windowsill on the little plastic baggie they’d been in. he supposed schlatt wasn’t too worried about the smell. not like anyone ever came up here anyway, least of all his parents. they were always away, and schlatt always said it dismissively with a hard look in his eyes. wilbur never asked, and he never brought it up.

he flicked the lighter a couple times, absentmindedly gazing into the little flame. fire was so mesmerizing, so pretty. it was something he used everyday, so didn’t really pay attention to much but… 

for reasons unknown to him he wants to light himself on fire. 

woah. woah. he wants to… 

he wants to light himself on fire.

that’s fucking dumb, the rational part of his brain says. with a lighter? good luck. 

the other part of his brain tells him to press down on the little red tab, igniting the lighter, and the flame bursts to life. 

fire is so pretty; it’s like the rest of the atmosphere falls away and it’s just him and the lighter. fire really is mesmerizing. 

it’s like his mind completely blanks, and he’s holding the lighter to his wrist, right underneath the knobby bone. 

wait.

“oh, shit, fuck fuck fuck.” the lighter clatters to the floor and he gasps, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. 

“ow, fuck.” his other hand grasps the offended wrist, and the burn throbs violently under his tight grip. he stares. he can’t process this. 

wilbur turns on his heel and leaves the room. the bathroom door is still shut, light leaking out of the cracks into the dark silent hallway. he walks past it.

the kitchen is as oppressive as ever, dark and silent and all looming white and steel. he doesn’t turn on the lights. 

the cold tap water feels nice on the burn. he inspects it under the running water, and it’s already faded to a dull throb. it’s red, but not too red. it's… fine. it's just a graze. he turns his wrist over, feeling oddly detached. it doesn’t… feel like it should be a big deal. it isn’t, it really isn’t. 

there’s a box of bandaids in the second bathroom off the front room, he knows it because he scraped his knee in schlatt’s backyard once, and the bandaids had been on the upper left shelf in the cupboard. he also knows they’re still there because no one uses them. 

sure enough, they’re there, covered in four years worth of dust. they have the old company logo, before they rebranded. wilbur almost forgot what it looked like, even though he’d seen it his whole childhood. he stared at it for a little too long. 

a methodically applied bandaid over the burn and it looks like nothing happened. no one would ask, but he’d just say he accidentally nicked himself while using a knife or something. phil was strangely believing of most things his children said, which has been well proven. so, it’s not a big deal.

it doesn’t feel like one anyway. he has better things to do, namely, go smoke another joint. 

schlatt’s still in the bathroom when wilbur walks back through the dark hall up to the attic, and he doesn’t know if he should be concerned.

but he gets back, and it’s like nothing even happened. he picks up the lighter, turning it over in his hand for a minute.

huh.

by the time schlatt pokes his head in the doorway again, wilbur’s halfway through the second joint, sitting on the windowsill half leaning out.

“took you long enough.”

schlatt looks a little pale, but otherwise his usual obnoxious self. he saunters over, and wilbur wonders if it's the high that's making him think that. he seems fine. 

“yeah yeah, a mans gotta do his business wil.” he grinned, leaning over wilbur to grab a joint. wilbur freezes, eyeing the top of his dark head. 

his hair was slightly curly, he distantly thinks. how has he never noticed that?

“now,” schlatt starts, joint between his teeth, “we’ve run into a slight problem.”

“oh?”

“no more eye drops.” he flicks the lighter and the end of the joint withers into smouldering embers. 

“oh.” if no one was home it would be fine. phils at work, and there's a party down at the lake and he has a sneaking suspicion tommy isn’t at tubbo’s like he said he was. huh. techno might be at dreams. didn’t they have that project?

“it’s fine.” his hazy brain decides. no one’ll be home. 

“alright.” schlatt shrugs, and blows smoke out the window. it’s peaceful. 

after a few minutes wilbur fumbles with his phone and turns on a playlist. him and schlatt have a similar music taste, which is quite a plus. 

some time passes, and wilbur loses track of exactly how much. he just gets lost in the low music, the smoke in his lungs, and schlatt’s presence to his left. its long enough so that all that’s left of their joints is a limp filter. 

schlatt tosses his out the window, and sighs. wilbur takes that as a sign to toss his own. 

he leans his head against the wooden frame of the window and watches schlatt sweep all the joints into the plastic bag, then secure it under a loose floorboard next to packs of cigarettes and little pill baggies. 

“ready to bounce, virgo?” 

wilbur hums in agreement, giggling a little. his thoughts were already becoming liquidated, sloshing around without any direction. its better, this way, because you can’t think too in depth about your problems. he had a habit of doing that. 

they never smoke an excessive amount, only enough to get the honey-golden warmth filling their heads. wilbur hasn’t greened out in quite a while, leaving behind excessive smoking for drowning himself in alcohol. still, they kept a near-constant state of intoxication. can’t come down and face your problems if you're always high.

schlatt always walks him home. 

“i want toast.” he says. 

“no eggos?” 

“i think toast.” it feels like they’re betraying tradition, but wilbur really wants toast. it feels wrong to walk straight past the kitchen, but they already don’t have eye drops so might as well skip that part of the routine entirely. never the part where schlatt walks him home though. never that part. 

he ignores the little part of him that says it’s about time he let go. 

they walk into the cool night air, wind still whistling around the trees, and clouds heavy with unspilled rain. it's not quite a pleasant night, but wilbur enjoys it because schlatt is warm and he exists and he’s here right now, and his sneakers make scuffing noises that echo across from the other side of the street. 

“so, your brother’s like adhd right?” schlatt says, all too casually. wilbur squints.

“yeah…?”

“is he like, medicated.” and wilbur understands.

“dude” he starts, laughing, “you're gonna ask techno for addy?” schlatt starts laughing too.

“well who else? dream’s not on meds and eret told me to fuck off.” 

“schlatt you asked eret?” he says incredulously. 

“it was a mistake.” they both giggle. eret was known for refusing to give anyone his adhd meds, and getting right pissed when he was asked. of course fucking schlatt would, he was way too bold. 

“would techno give it to you?” wilbur muses, kicking a rock on the sidewalk.

“we’ll have to find out.” schlatt shrugs. wilbur hums in reply, and raises his head to look at the cosmos above. a comfortable silence falls over them, trudging down the suburban street.

like so many times before, wilbur’s house all too quickly rises up in their field of view, and like so many times before, they stumble up to the front door giggling. wilbur fumbles with his keys for five whole minutes until schlatt realises that the door is unlocked. 

“hopefully we aren’t being robbed.” he whispers as they enter.

“shhh.” schlatt hisses, “what if we are.”

“we? it’s my house.”

“what if they took tommy.”

“good riddance.” wilbur snickers. 

“shhh the robbers.” 

“there’s no fucki-” they round the corner and wilbur stops dead in his tracks, schlatt behind him. familiar flash of pink hair. techno’s sitting at the kitchen table. fuck. he looks at them inquisitively and he needs to say something fuck fuck fuck-

“hey techno what’s, uh, going on? me and schlatt were just, uh, doing fun legal things.” oh fuck.

“dumbass.” schlatt hisses from behind him. techno raises an eyebrow.

“you’re not foolin’ me.” he says with the faintest trace of amusement, “i don’t care though; and i mean i’m not gonna tell phil.”

oh thank fuck. he feels his fucking bones relax. tense bones aren’t good for the soul (jesus christ he’s fried).

“oh big man, i thought we were toast.” rasps schlatt, clapping him on the back (electricity electricity electricity). oh that reminds him. toast.

“oh now i want toast!” is what comes out of his mouth, sounding way too enthusiastic over a piece of recooked bread.

“fuck yeah.” schlatt mumbles. they take that as their cue to start ransacking the kitchen, giggling and trying to shut each other up because techno looks slightly confused and also scared. wilbur is in the middle of putting his toast in the toaster when schlatt pokes him.

“wil.” schlatt hisses.

“what.”

“i’m gonna ask him.”

“oh god.”

“don’t worry, i’m smooth.” 

predictability, the next thing out of his mouth is “techno do you like drugs?”

jesus christ. techno just looks like he wants to run far away and never come back, his ears turning a little red. he shrugs. wilbur giggles awkwardly, gripping the edge of the counter to steady himself.

“techno, wilbur mentioned you have some, ah, medications i might like.” and wilbur sees the realization hit techno.

“you want adderall?” techno questions. schlatt laughs, clapping his hands once.

“you get it, you get it.” he yanks a sweaty ten dollar bill out of his pocket and waves it around. “so, what about it?”

“yeah sure.” well that’s a surprise. he didn’t really expect his brother to be the drug dealing type but everyone’s full of surprises. his toast pops, and he gets distracted buttering it, but when he looks back up schlatt is slapping the money into techno’s waiting hand.

“pleasure doing business with you.” schlatt all but cackles. techno hums in agreement, turns on his heel, and leaves the room.

“another baby brother selling drugs.” he giggles. it’s not very funny.

“is tommy fucking selling nowadays?”

“well no, i guess i’m the drug dealer, huh?” he muses, taking a bite of his toast. 

“you’re his drug dealer?”

“well, i have to be.

“if you don’t want him doing drugs, isn’t that a little… counterproductive?”

“well you see,” wilbur sighs, “i can’t stop him from doing it, dude from personal experience. if i tell him he can’t he’ll just go to someone else. that means i can’t make sure he’s not gonna fucking die. so, if it’s through me at least i can make sure shit’s safe, y’know?”

“huh. that’s a good point.” schlatt nods, taking a swig of phil’s most expensive red wi-

wait.

“hey! put that back!”

“this shit is fucking vintage, absolutely not.” he argues, but turns to put it back where he found it. wilbur hops up on the counter, swinging his legs and it feels… normal. normal like it’s been for the past four years, normal like the way they move past each other when they make snacks, normal like the way schlatt doesn’t need to ask when he hops up next to wilbur and steals his phone, opening snapchat and sending minx a video of him flipping her off.

it’s normal. it’s routine, it’s… domestic?

everythings fucking changing so fast, he just needs this one thing to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POG SO one more chapter, then wilbur pov be nice to me chapter 7, then i may get the strength to finish be nice to me but can we all manifest i feel like dark magic will help  
> LMAO  
> also i feel like the way i try to describe doing drugs makes it seem like i've never done a drug in my life LMAOJSJDCJ


	7. it got me to thinking, if i don't go to hell when i die i might go to heaven (but probably not)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALRIGHT this is kinda a little filler chapter before things explode :)))))
> 
> tw// mentioned drug use, suicidal thoughts, self harm mention

wilbur sits with his guitar and his pen on the floor of his room, and he’s fucking frustrated. 

the day had been mostly okay. he’d smoked again in the early hours of the morning before the sun rose. he had stood, breathless and half-high, watching the suns first rays peak over the horizon, cutting through the frozen clouds. he’d stayed there by the old dock for a long time.

he’d walked in an hour later, and tommy, eating cereal at the table, had given him a knowing look. wilbur had just rolled his eyes and stalked up to his room. fucking tommy.

but now here he was, after a day of fucking nothing, sitting with his back pressed to the wall and sheets of paper scattered on the floor in front of him. 

god what was he doing. 

well, trying to write songs. key word being, trying.

look, wilbur was a very emotional person. he was also a very creative person. he tried to get his emotions out through art, through songwriting, through viciously slamming on the strings of his guitar so hard they sometimes snapped, and screaming sad songs at the top of his lungs. (honestly why hadn’t phil taken him to a goddamn therapist yet. no one who screams ajj on a sunday morning is okay at all.) 

so, when he had emotions it was a thing he did. write songs. and he thought writing songs would make him feel better, feel like he understood his confusing fucking feelings. unfortunately it was just making things worse. 

pages upon pages of scribbled out lyrics and chord progressions, sometimes holes ripped in the places he scribbled too hard. his pen was currently being chewed on, fingers dancing over the strings. it’s like nothing worked, no melody was angry enough, the lyrics didn’t convey exactly what he meant, it was too flat, he accidentally started playing crywank.

it was horrible but he felt the pressing urge to get it out, the feelings writhing around inside of his chest. it was like a weight pressing on him, panic rising up in his throat. he needed to write.

but he couldn’t.

he wasn’t exactly sure… what the fuck was going on. there was one fucking person behind his goddamn confusion and it was driving him insane. schlatt. 

they were best friends. childhood best friends, even. they were… 

he slams his head back against the wall with a half strangled groan, letting his hands fall to his sides. 

what were they?

it haunted him, driving his mind around in circles when he was alone. he knew he had an attachment to the shorter teen, he knew it was probably bordering on the edge of unhealthy. they spent a lot of time together. but it felt so charged, the energy whenever they were together and he got too close, when they made eye contact. sometimes he could’ve swore schlatt felt it too. 

maybe he was just delusional. 

so here he was trying to write a fucking song, but nothing sounded right because his feelings were vastly complicated. 

‘i fucking love you’ is that really true? ‘i love when you’re around’ more true, but…? ‘i love the idea of you’ wrong, he’s pretty sure now that he loves the person. ‘i’m addicted to the idea of you loving me’ that's… not bad. he’s getting somewhere. 

he uncaps the pen, scribbling that down in the empty space where his next lyric was waiting to be written. it doesn’t need to make sense, he tells himself. it just needs to… convey the mood right? 

his feelings are confused, jumbled. he can only understand them in metaphors and comparisons, with imagery and sounds and vague implications. he’s getting nowhere. 

he finds himself longing for childhood at the weirdest fucking moments. like right now, he wishes he could go back to when he was actually happy. he was one of the lucky ones, getting adopted by phil when he was seven. it hadn’t been a walk in the park, but it had been so much better then whatever this is. it’s like everything had just come crashing down on him all of a sudden, and he was fucking drowning. 

his mind wanders to the bottle of vodka hidden in the fake plant and he wonders if it's a drink-till-i-black-out-and-can’t-remember-anything night. the concept is always tempting to him. wilbur can never do anything halfway, if he drinks it’s to black out. 

he drinks a lot.

maybe it will be a blackout night. he feels like he’s not getting anywhere with this, and if you can’t get out your feelings, the next best thing is to fucking drown them. he’s good at that.

his fingers start absentmindedly dancing along the strings, fingering the melody he’d been writing the song for. in the hallway he hears someone shuffling by, and his fingers stutter.

he sighs again, leaning his head against the wall. he really wants to be drunk. he really wants to fucking cry. he wants… he doesn’t know what he wants. does he even deserve to want? he’s his little brother’s fucking dealer for fucks sakes. earlier today he’d given tommy the thirty nic vape that he’d bought from sapnap, and tommy lit up. it had made something twist in the pit of his stomach, and he’d grinned at him to prevent a grimace, and immediately locked himself in his room and cried.

pathetic. his life was just a fucking trainwreck. sometimes he wishes he could just drink himself to death, to blackout and never wake up. sometimes he gets the urge to burn himself again. the first time had been accidental, but he found himself thinking about it late at night.

this morning he hadn’t thrown the joint on the ground, still lit, and scuffed it out with his foot. he’d put it out on the soft flesh of his arm. it didn’t hurt as much as the lighter did, and why was that disappointing to him? what was wrong with him?

he’s so fucked up. that thought just makes him huff a laugh, staring at the ceiling fan whirring in circles like his thought process. whatever. his stomach cramps up painfully, reminding him he hasn’t eaten since yesterday, and he finally drags himself to his feet. he didn’t particularly want to faint in front of his whole family, probably traumatizing them for life. so, food. 

creeping into the hallway, he looks around. tommy’s door is closed, and techno’s is wide open. humming, he walks down the stairs only to freeze when he hears… sobbing? he leans over the bannister to try and get a better look, and the stairs loudly creak. he winces, hoping no one heard that. they probably wouldn’t appreciate wilbur stalking them.

he can’t see anything from where he is, but it’s most definitely techno who’s having the breakdown in the living room. his dad is probably in there too, then. he shifts a little, frowning. he just wanted toast man, and now he’s worried. he hears them murmuring softly now, and then phil goes into the kitchen and wilbur can hear him clattering around. 

he sits down on the stairs, sighing again. he was always worried about his siblings, no matter how old he was. he was always an empathetic child, and he thinks some of that carried over even though he’s sad and bitter. maybe he just cares more about other people then himself. he could fuck himself up until death, but it would be over his dead body that he let tommy or techno do the same. or at least he could try.

he sees phil going back to the living room with two steaming mugs, then hears them talking in low voices. he absentmindedly rubs the burn marks with the opposite hand, straining hard to hear what they’re whispering about. it doesn’t work. he’s just… worried. techno’s been worrying him lately, especially when he’d zoned out the other day, and when wilbur heard him crying in the bathroom with the tap running. he just doesn’t know what he can do. they’re not as close as they used to be.

huh. 

he hears the tv flick on in the living room, and perks up. now he can go in, and it won’t look like he was lurking around waiting for him to finish having a breakdown. he nods to himself a little bit, hopping to his feet and making his way over to the living room. 

techno’s sitting on the couch next to phil, and wilbur shuffles in, tugging on his beanie a little. the pink haired teen turns around, eyes red rimmed and puffy and wilbur pretends not to notice. 

“wanna join.” he mumbles, and wilbur grins wide, climbing over the back of the couch right next to techno. it feels like when they were kids, and they’d go everywhere with each other, when techno was thirteen and he was fourteen. they’d been inseparable.  
the living room is cozy, window wide open and letting cool evening air drift in and circulate the room. he yawns, leaning into his brother a little. he’s tired, and he didn’t get the chance to eat yet, but he’ll cling to this moment until he can’t anymore.

“hey toms.” phil says softly, and wilbur looks up realizing that tommy has entered the room. he looks… sad? and he gets a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach because it looks way too familiar, way too much like what he sees in the mirror. 

“come join.” phil says, patting the cushion next to him. tommy smiles, and walks over to wiggle his way in between wilbur and techno, and they have to shift slightly to make room for him. he’s too fucking tall, and wilbur knows he’s gonna be taller then techno some day. 

“you’re too fucking tall.” 

“shut up wilbur.” tommy mutters.

phil snorts. tommy just rolls his eyes and pointedly turns his head away from wilbur, mock annoyed.

they settle into silence, half paying attention to the show and half asleep. the atmosphere is warm, and wilbur finds himself drifting off to sleep. tommy’s legs are splayed over his, face pressed into techno’s shoulder. wilbur doesn’t think he’s actually asleep, but decides to pretend he’s oblivious. 

he’s glad he didn’t get drunk tonight. this feels better. a distant part of his brain thinks why can’t he just do this all the time instead of drowning in substances, why can’t he just reach out? the other part says he’s too far gone. he’s bitter, and he made his choice a long time ago. 

he leans against the couch and resolves to drift off. this is enough for tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAA SO i've literally had the next chapter half done since chapter 3 of this fic, and sometimes i post things even if i dont really think its good but i am ACTUALLY RLY PROUD OF IT AND I THINK IT WILL MAKE YOU SOB SO prepare for it and yes it's finished right now >:) i can post it anytime but i love torture so~ but i'm impatient so SOON
> 
> and yes it is wilbur pov be nice to me chapter 7 B-) get fuckt


	8. on empty rings around your heart, the world just screams and falls apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO I'M LOWKEY PEEING MY PANTS ne ways. i had a nice soundtrack of neutral milk hotel while i wrote the second half and iykyk its gonna hit,.kdf,. why am i literally scared to post this 
> 
> tw // suicide, panic attacks, drugs mention, just SUPER heavy in general uh

the damp air feels like it’s settling in wilbur’s lungs as he trudges down the sidewalk. he pulls schlatt’s hoodie further over his head, feeble protection from the cold night. it’s the coldest its been in a very long time. he’s not sure if that means something.

it’s rare that they actually hang out anymore without doing some kind of drug. he can barely recall a time where they hung out and weren’t intoxicated. he frowns slightly. that’s not exactly healthy. they’re not the healthiest people, but… he shakes his head. schlatt was out of weed, and so was wilbur, and he didn’t have any alcohol so they had played minecraft. it made him remember when they were kids, giggling on a pc with keys slightly too big for their small fingers.

the stars are covered by a blanket of grey clouds, heavy with unspilled rain. he stares up at the sky dismally. wilbur always liked looking at the stars, but now there’s not a single one visible. he shudders, picking up his pace. he absolutely hated this kind of weather. it made him sad.

he sees the warm glow of the porch light in the distance, house rising out of the gloom behind it. suddenly he misses schlatt, the other teen almost never failing to walk him home. he speeds up, until he’s practically sprinting up the last few feet of the front walk, his feet splashing in shallow puddles as he ran. it’s gross outside anyways, he really doesn’t wanna be outside for longer than he has to.

he gives the doorknob an experimental twist, finding it unlocked. huh. oh, techno’s probably home. dad’s at work… tommy? where’s tommy? either home or “tubbo’s”, which was most definitely code for ‘i am doing hard drugs with people twice my age’.

the house is eerily silent and dark when he walks in, way too silent. the hairs raise on the back of his neck and he shudders. okay… this is weird. 

resisting the urge to call for his brother, because he’s slightly afraid their house is being robbed, he throws off his sneakers and elbows the door shut wincing when it slams hard. it echoes off the high ceilings in the hallway. 

there’s not a single light on anywhere in the house. it’s a little unnerving. he chews on his lip. his anxiety spikes, and he speedwalks to the kitchen, hoping to see if someone’s there before he gets a gun to the head. 

peeking into the kitchen hesitantly, very hesitantly, he relaxes when he sees techno slumped over the kitchen table. 

“hey tech.” he greets, waiting to ask him what the hell he was doing sitting there in the dark. kid’s always been strange like that.

there’s a pause that goes on for a second too long. 

techno sits up, squinting at wilbur in the dark. even in the low light, wilbur can see he looks confused and his eyes are glazed over. he just blinks, and wilbur gets a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. something’s wrong. 

“hi.” he whispers, voice cracking and fuck, wilbur’s instincts started screaming at him. something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s wrong.

he takes a step closer, inspecting the other teen, anxiety rising. his eyes are unfocused, staring straight ahead and his whole body shakes slightly. fuck. did he take something? techno never really struck wilbur as, well, someone like him. but everyone’s full of surprises. 

“are you… okay?” wilbur asks hesitantly. he thinks he knows the answer anyway. 

“mhm.” he breathes. wilbur’s concern only grows, and he flops into the chair next to techno, uncertain about what to do. what if he’s on something? doesn’t look like weed or alcohol. what if it was some random pills? did sapnap sell techno drugs!?

“oh my god are you on something.” comes out of his mouth abruptly, and he cringes at his tone. techno doesn’t seem to notice either way. despite his harsh words, he’s careful when he reaches out to check the pulse in the crook of his neck. he presses his two fingers onto the artery, and is greeted with a dangerously fast pulse.

panic seizes him. oh my god what does he do? 

“it’s so fast. oh god. uh.” he mumbles, mostly to himself. what did he take? wilbur needs to get a better look, it’s way too fucking dark in this room. it’s starting to get a little creepy.

he abruptly gets up to turn on the light, getting a little lightheaded when he stands too fast. fuck. once the kitchen is flooded with familiar yellow light, he finds it easier to breathe. okay, calm. everything’s gonna be okay. 

he turns to survey the kitchen again, reasonably calmer. familiar olive curtains, polished countertops, family photos and-

oh. oh no no no nonono. 

all at once, understanding floods him along with fear. fear was the main emotion actually. 

the light allowed for him to make out things he couldn’t in the dark. like the bottle of tylenol spilling out onto the counter. 

they both don’t move for a long second, techno’s dull eyes staring holes through wilbur. oh god, that’s gonna haunt him forever. he’ll definitely see that in his nightmares.

“tech?” the childhood nickname escapes his mouth without a second thought. he’s not worried about it, not right now.

“yeah?” techno sounds so… defeated. 

“did you…?” wilbur doesn’t even know how he’s gonna finish that sentence. what do you even say in a situation like this? the silence stretches heavy between them, heavy with unsaid things and unspoken questions. 

what is he supposed to do? 

“if you’re gonna ask if i took half the bottle, yeah.” wilbur’s breath hitched. logically he knew what was happening here, but… 

to hear him say it that dully, no emotion in his tired cracked voice. to be standing here opposite his little brother who was overdosing staring at his pink hair because wilbur didn’t think he could look him in the eyes. 

“get in the car.” autopilot kicked in, and his brain forced his feet to close the gap between them, to grab techno’s arm and pull him out of the chair. the other teen was silently compliant. that scared the shit out of him.

all he feels is adrenaline as he snatches his keys and haphazardly shoves his sneakers on. back into the horribly soggy atmosphere. he has to lock the front door. he has to lock the front door but he misses the lock three times and realizes it’s because his hands are shaking. 

he presses on his keys and the headlights respond with a blink and techno silently slips into the passenger seat. wilbur is shaking and it’s because he’s cold. it’s because he’s cold. he shoves the keys into the ignition. the car is a little old, and can’t really handle rough treatment but wilbur throws it into reverse and slams on the gas so hard he thinks he can feel the pedal crack under his foot. 

techno’s bent over a little, breathing hard and wilbur might’ve muttered something but his mind is sharply focused on one thing, and that’s just getting to the hospital. he can call phil later, and oh god he’s gonna have to call phil, he’s gonna have to tell phil. who’s gonna… who’s gonna tell tommy? fuck. fuck fuck fuck fuck.

stop. focus. he can have a panic attack later. 

“wilbur you’re goin’ fifty over the speed limit.” his brother mumbles, breaking his slight daze. he’s clutching the steering wheel so hard his fingers ache, but he can’t let go.

“shut up.” he says halfheartedly, eyes staring holes through the yellow line that splits the road in two. a part of him doesn’t want to believe that this is happening. like maybe it’s all a bad dream and he’ll wake up, and they’re okay and techno’s still taller then tommy, and wilbur’s freckles haven’t faded yet, and this wasn’t fucking happening it wasn’t it wasn’t-

to his right he sees techno lean his cheek against the cold window, eyelids fluttering. if he passes out… 

“tech?” he doesn’t move, “oh nononono stay awake okay?” he has to keep his eyes on the road because the ground is slick with ice and the cars on the highway are aggressively passing each other. he has to keep his eyes on the road even though it’s going a little blurry because one dead child is better than two. 

“love you.” he mumbles, quiet in the thick atmosphere of the car but wilbur can barely hear it over the sound of his beating heart. 

“fuck.” some bitch in a black sudan is going at least fucking sixty right in front of him. unexpected rage bubbles up in his bloodstream as he slams down on the horn.

“fucking move.” he yells desperately, stepping on the gas a little more. how far away is this fucking hospital? he doesn’t remember it being that far. 

techno’s literally not moving. 

wait.

fuck. 

without even thinking he reaches over into the cupholder where his phone is, and swipes to emergency call. one hand on the wheel and one hand dialing phils number that he had memorized by heart. it rings once, twice.

“hello?” his throat closes up, tears threatening to fall.

“dad.” he chokes, clutching the phone to his chest. 

“woah woah, are you okay?” phil says, alarm apparent in his voice. 

“you need to meet me at the hospital.” he tries to keep his voice from shaking. he’s not sure it works.

“what? why?” on the other side of the phone he hears the jingling of phil’s keys. 

“i, um.” he can’t breathe. 

“hey mate it’s okay, can you tell me what happened?” its fine, its fine because he’s driving a fucking car and he needs to not crash and fucking die although that doesn’t sound too bad right now-

“right, uh, something happened to techno.” he chooses his words carefully, focusing on the road in front of him. he needs to turn off on this ramp and he almost misses what phil says next.

“what happened?” phil sounds like he’s barely concealing his panic, trying to stay calm because he has a kid who’s very close to freaking the fuck out on the other end of the line. 

“i don’t… i don’t think i can say it.” he says just above a whisper, voice cracking. through the phone he hears a car door slam and the engine start. 

“wil.” 

breathe, in, out. 

“he tried to kill himself.” 

silence. for a moment, the only thing he can hear is their collective breathing, his a little faster, and the distant noises of the highway. the dew on his windshield reflects off the lights of the nearby buildings he’s driving past, so many people each with their own lives and worries, living, breathing, loving, and fucking dying. 

what could he even say to fill a silence like this? apparently nothing, as they both drive in silence, still on the phone, towards the same destination. 

phil worked close, so it should take him relatively the same amount of time to get to the hospital. wilbur barely remembers driving through the town, taking rights and lefts on autopilot. 

he pulls into the parking lot of the hospital and phil’s red car is waiting up at the very front, parked haphazardly. wilbur barely parks himself before phil’s thrown the door open and shaking techno.

“wil i need you to tell me what happened.” phil says calmly, looking into his teary brown eyes. 

“i came home… he was at the table and he told me- he said he took- he took half a bottle of tylenol.” he stutters, fingers fumbling with the keys as he turns the car off. 

“when did he pass out?”

“in the car… like five minutes ago right before i called you.” 

“okay wilbur look at me, go home okay. go home, and don’t tell tommy.”

“wh- what.” 

“he doesn’t need the stress.” phil sighed, staring down at techno’s unconscious form. 

“tech? wake up.” wilbur watched his dad attempt to stir techno, shaking him gently and that’s when the tears started to fall, as if it had finally sunk in that this was happening, that he’d made it here and now he had nothing else to laser-focus on. 

he watches techno twitch a little bit, and phil frowns.

“tech please?” his voice breaks a little bit and wilbur wants to fucking die. phil places a hand on techno’s cheek, and he looks like he’s about to cry and wilbur just cries harder. 

“m coming.” he mumbles, and pries his eyes open and his eyes are unfocused, he looks like he’s not all there. he looks like he’s not anywhere. 

for some reason wilbur can’t stop fucking crying.

“we have to go.” phil says, grabbing techno’s arm gently and pulling him to his feet. phil closes the door behind them, and wilbur watches them go until everything blurs together like a kaleidoscope of white. 

he’s so fucking stupid, and self centered. he should’ve… known something was up, maybe he could’ve fucking stopped him, or helped him, or… 

he remembers how he’d thought there was something up ever since the night he’d come back from dream’s, where wilbur had thought and realized techno had been more subdued, more withdrawn. and i mean it’s techno, but there was obviously something wrong.

he wants to die. 

if techno actually… succeeds in his attempt… its a dark thought but he can’t help it from rising from the worst parts of his brain. 

if techno killed himself wilbur was next. it becomes stunningly clear to him sitting alone in the car, arms tightly wrapped around his core and eyes staring at the place where he saw phil and techno disappear

maybe it’s a sentiment to how fucking unstable wilbur has become, but with certainty he knows if techno doesn’t leave the hospital he’s driving his car off a bridge… or something, probably equally as dramatic. he feels like he wants his final act to be violent.

that’s only if techno dies though. 

his fingers fumble for the key, turning it in the ignition before he consciously realizes he’s done it. he clutches the steering wheel for dear life, foot ghosting over the gas pedal. 

he’s crying harder than he can remember ever crying in his life. maybe it’s the raw fear, still running on the adrenaline he’d been doused in the second he saw the half empty bottle.

he rips his hands away from the wheel, shaking his head wildly. what is he doing. what is he doing, what is he fucking doing phil already had a dying fucking kid he didn’t need two and tommy would have no fucking older brothers and he’d get into hard drugs and overdose and he would die and phil would have no fucking kids and and 

fuck, fuck, fuck. he grabs his phone, wiping water out of his eyes but it makes no difference because he still can’t fucking see, he can’t fucking see who he’s typing to so he’ll have to hope it’s the right goddamn contact.

**drug addicts and niki (princess, bbh’s lover, and (12) others)**

**wilbur, 8:27pm**  
schlat

 **wilbur 8:27pm**  
help

 **wilbur, 8:27pm**  
im gona die

 **wilbur, 8:27pm**  
shlatt

 **large q, 8:27pm**  
woah woah, wilbur are you okay?

 **wilbur, 8:28pm**  
i nened schlatt 

**dweam, 8:28pm**  
im calling him rn

 **wilbur, 8:29pm**  
i didnt mean to txtthis gc

 **furry, 8:30pm**  
whats did you do rhis time wil?

 **wilbur, 8:30pm**  
inotjing

 **large q, 8:30pm**  
that’s really not convincing big dubs

 **princess, 8:31pm**  
oh my god what's going on i stg he left my house an hour ago perfectly unharmed

**INCOMING CALL FROM ‘PRINCESS’**

he doesn’t have to think twice before he answers.

“hey hey wil what’s wrong.” schlatt asks, panic laced through his tone.

“i’m at the hospital.” he sobs into the phone, way past being coherent enough to not worry schlatt. he can’t fuckingbreathehecan’tbreathehecan’tbreathepleasepleasepleasefuck. 

“what? what happened?”

“not me.” 

“not you?”

“techno.” 

“what happened to techno, wil?”

“he tried to fucking kill himself.” and he can’t breathe, he’s sobbing way too hard for that and schlatt’s trying to talk to him through the phone, tone frantic. 

“breathe wil, you need to breathe.” but he fucking can’t he feels like he’s going to fucking die just like his baby brother is right now, he’s going to choke and he’s going to die. fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“fuck this, i’m going there.” schlatt’s voice rings out from the phone he’s sobbing into, bordering on hysterics. he must look so fucking crazy. he must sound so fucking crazy.

“i can’t breathe.” he gasps into the phone, begging for schlatt to come help him please please i need you i need you ineedyouineedyou-

“you’re having a panic attack.” the other teen says calmly. on the other end of the line he can hear the jingling of his keys and it reminds him of not even thirty minutes earlier when he was in this exact position, only it was phil coming to help him. now it’s schlatt. 

“i can’t.” he sobs, it only opens up a dam inside of him. he feels his heart painfully beating inside his chest. something cracks deep inside of him. 

“hey you’re fine, okay? listen to my voice.” he starts humming, some random song they’d listened to earlier in the night when it was okay. wilbur feels like a wild animal clutching the phone like it was a lifeline, and in a way it was, connecting him to schlatt. 

“techno’s gonna die.” he sobs, shaking his head, “i’m gonna fucking die.”

“no you’re not, okay? techno’s gonna be okay, and you’re gonna be okay.” he soothes. 

it doesn’t seem to work, wilbur doesn’t think he can be calm unless schlatt’s here and he’s real and he’s next to him. 

“i’m on my way.” 

“i need you.” he sobs harder, one hand coming up to yank on his hair. he can’t even think, his thoughts jumbling up to form one big sludge of fuckfuckfuck i’mgonna die techno’s gonna die i’m gonna drivemyfuckingcaroffabridgeandtheneveryonesgonnafuckingdie. 

“shhh.” 

he curls up in the seat, pulling his knees to his chest and trying to get it under control because really this was looking a bit pathetic now, come on, but he can’t control it and he can’t breathe and everything’s a fucking mess and tommy’s blissfully unaware that anything’s wrong at all. 

“i’m almost there.” he sniffs, rubbing his eyes. tommy was about to have his world fucking shattered, he knows it and he’d do just about anything to protect him from everything but he can’t shelter him, he’s thirteen and he’s old enough to understand why people take half a bottle of tylenol or drive off a fucking bridge. 

“tommy.” he sobs again, and it doesn’t make any sense but he can’t right now and his mind is racing in circles and keeping him locked in panic. 

“tommy’s fine, wil.” 

“he won’t be when i tell him.” 

and what can schlatt say to that? he can only breathe through the phone listening to wilbur hyperventilate and step on the gas a little harder. 

it feels like he’s finally grown up. he sits there in the dark silent car hyperventilating and the cars outside still rush past on the highway, the hospital looms over his car menacingly, five storeys of rooms where someone that somebody once loved died. five storeys of overdoses, suicides, car crash victims, sick people, dying people, and next to each bed was a worried loved one, a mom and dad holding each impossibly small hand in theirs, one wrinkled hand slipping out of another, someone clutching someone’s hand and sobbing.

someone's life would never be the same. maybe it would be his. god he hates hospitals. he’s afraid that everytime he sees someone walk in, they’ll never come out. he’s had that fear ever since he was a kid. that even unknowingly, he could witness someone stepping foot into their final moments. he wonders if he just witnessed it now, if it’s the last time he’ll see techno alive, stumbling into the main doors leaning on phil heavily. 

someone knocks on the window and he just about jumps out of his skin, twisting around to see an extremely frantic schlatt staring back at him from the window. 

he opens the door and throws himself into schlatt, starting to cry all over again. the other teen immediately wraps his arms around wilbur, and he buries his face in the crook of schlatt’s neck. he smells like cigarette smoke and cologne. 

“here let’s get in the car.” schlatt whispers in his ear, and he nods through his tears. with wilbur still very much attached to him, he gets in the backseat and closes the door. 

“i’m here.” he says, a little awkwardly if wilbur’s being honest but he’s here and he’s real and he’s warm and he’s alive and wilbur’s clinging to him and sobbing into his goddamn hoodie. 

“wil, please breathe.” he whispers, running his hands through wilbur’s hair. he tries his best, copying schlatt’s breathing and trying not to think of anything else but schlatt warm underneath him. 

breathe, in, out. 

breathe, in, out. 

breathe, in, out. 

after a while, he calms down, enough so that his tears dry up and his eyes are red rimmed and glossy and schlatt’s hoodie is literally soaked what the fuck is wrong with him but he’s fine, he’s fine.

“sorry.” he mumbles into the thick fabric, clutching it with all his strength. 

“shh, don’t be.” 

“...okay.” he takes a deep breath. 

“do you want to come to my house?” schlatt says softly. 

“...yeah.” 

“come in my car, you can leave yours here tonight. it’s okay.” 

he simply nods, extracting himself from the other teen slowly. he doesn’t really want to let go. 

schlatt grabs his keys and phone from where they were discarded in the passenger seat (where techno sat an hour prior, his brain screams) and leads him gently away, locking wilbur’s car with a blink of the headlights. wilbur sits in the passenger seat of schlatt’s car, and after his freak out, he feels strangely empty. 

schlatt starts to drive, the low hum of some background music filling the silence.

“i wanted to…” he pauses, swallowing. is it really a good idea to say that? 

“i wanted to drive my car off a bridge.” fuck it. schlatt’s eyes widen, fingers twitching on the wheel.

“jesus christ wil.” he breathes, staring dead ahead. wilbur stares ahead too, focusing on the dark suburban road in front of them. 

“techno… tried to kill himself” it wasn’t gonna hurt less the more he said it. 

“i found him and y’know,” he gestures vaguely in front of him. what else could he fucking say to fill the silence?

“fuck, i’m sorry.” 

“yeah…” he sniffs. he’s not gonna start crying again, nope nope no fucking way. 

they turn onto the highway, and wilbur looks out the window, and it’s started to rain.

his phone dings.

 **dadza, 9:02pm**  
tech’s going to be fine, i’m sorry you had such a scare. he only passed out from dehydration. we’ll be home tonight, but late.

 **dadza, 9:02pm**  
can you get tommy and tell him what happened? 

he could sob, but this time with relief. he thinks he makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat because schlatt looks over in alarm, but he’s so relieved he could actually fucking die because he’s fine he’s fine he’s fine. 

well. fine might be a stretch.. techno isn’t going to die, but he tried to. and that weighs heavy on wilbur. 

“he’s fine.” he says, and watches schlatt visibly relax.

“thank fuck.” 

“god. what do i do now?” wilbur says, voice cracking.

“i don’t know.” 

“we have to pick up tommy.” he sighs, pulling up tommy’s contact on his phone. with the way he’s been lately, there’s no telling if he’s actually where he says he is. 

it rings once, twice. 

three times, four, five, six.

voicemail.

“this fucking kid.” he groans, redialing the number. he’s not in the fucking mood. this time tommy picks up on the third ring. 

“yeah?” he shouts into the phone, over the sound of loud music somewhere in the background.

“where are you?”

“why do you wanna know?” tommy snarks, and god he doesn’t have time for this all he wants to do is cry into a bottle of vodka.

“something happened, i’m coming to get you.” is all he says, hoping his voice isn’t shaking. 

“what do you mean?” tommy says, sounding a little more alarmed.

“tommy. where are you?” 

“ranboo’s.” he doesn’t have the energy to be surprised that the loud music in the background is at ranboo’s of all people. how much did they pay that walking ball of anxiety? 

“coming.” he hangs up, letting out a loud sigh. 

“who’s party is he at now?” 

“ranboo’s.” 

“what.” schlatt’s expression makes him huff a little laugh.

“they probably locked him in the basement.” wilbur shrugs, and it was schlatt’s turn to huff. nothing felt remotely alright, but they could make jokes and ignore the growing hole threatening to swallow them. if he didn’t do something else he knew he would be thinking about it, so he checks the groupchat.

 **furry, 8:32pm**  
THEN WTF HAPPENED

 **large q, 8:34pm**  
yall okay?????

 **niki :), 8:49pm**  
oh no :[ please text us asap, are u okay?

 **dweam, 8:56pm**  
i’m a little worried 

he hums a little bit, typing a response to his worried friends. 

**wilbur, 9:14pm**  
sorry guys, im fine now i meant to txt schlatt. something happened to techno and ik he’s friends with some of u so i dont wanna say w/o permission ://

then to niki individually, he types another message.

 **wilbur, 9:15pm**  
are you home?

he doesn’t have to wait long for a reply.

 **niki :), 9:16pm**  
no at minxes why? 

**wilbur, 9:16pm**  
why is your brother throwing a party

 **niki :), 9:17pm**  
what!??

 **wilbur, 9:17pm**  
we’ll be there soon, i’ll lyk

he shuts off his phone and collapses back into the seat, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. he can’t deal with any of this shit right now. if tommy fucking tries to be difficult he’ll probably fucking snap, but not violently, he’d just start crying again. he feels like a raw exposed nerve, all wired up and jumpy. he glances at schlatt, jaw set tensely and knuckles white around the steering wheel, and decides he’s not alone in that.

it’s such a weird situation, and he almost… doesn’t know what to feel. weirdly it makes him feel… most people talk about how anothers attempt snapped them out of it, how they saw their loved ones reactions and vowed never to do it. and that's nice, but… 

he feels like this whole situation had taken a crowbar and opened his chest, exposing things he’s never thought about before. like the realization that he’d kill himself for techno, for tommy, for schlatt. techno was gonna be fine, but if he wasn’t… neither would wilbur. and that’s just how it would be.

he lets out a shaky breath. more than that, it just shook him. techno would be okay, but somewhere else he wouldn’t be. somewhere else, wilbur screamed in the parking lot of a hospital, somewhere else phil sobbed as he watched them take his son away, somewhere else tommy answered the phone to a barely coherent wilbur. somewhere else wilbur didn’t pick up tommy because he drove off a bridge and local kids told stories about how they saw his blood bubbling up to the surface of the water, spreading like a disease. somewhere else, phil only had one kid left, a kid that was barely a person anymore. 

he was fine. but somewhere else could’ve been here. 

“you okay?” a voice broke through his thoughts.

“no.” 

“well, we’re here.” wilbur looks up in surprise, the car now parked on the side of the road across from ranboo and niki’s. he’s been here many times, but the flashing lights and music does make him pause.

“lemme call tommy.” he digs his phone out again, calling tommy. it rings once, twice.

“yeah?”

“we’re here. schlatts car.”

“can i bring ranboo and tubbo?”

“no, tommy.”

“wilbur you haven’t even told me what’s going on!”

“i’ll explain in the car?”

“tell me right now and i’ll come.”

“tommy you don’t want to hear this where you are right now.”

“why?”

“tommy.” his voice cracks, tears dripping down his cheeks again, “get in the fucking car.” it’s silent for a couple seconds.

“okay.” he mutters, scuffling a little bit. the call ends. 

“fuck.” he says wetly, wiping his eyes again. he needs to stop crying, but once he starts he can’t stop.

“brat.” schlatt sighs.

“he doesn’t know yet, he’s just… being a teenager.” he whispers, watching tommy walk down the front steps with ranboo, grinning broadly and explaining something. poor ranboo looks like he’s about to cry. they get closer with each passing second and it reminds him of a clock running out of time. life ruined in three, two,

“what’s going on.” tommy says, slipping into the middle seat and waving a quick goodbye to ranboo. his smile melts off to vague concern when wilbur sniffles, and turns to face him with wet cheeks and messy hair. schlatt pushes the stick shift forward, and starts to drive silently. 

“um.” wilbur takes a deep breath in, as deep as his lungs will allow, because he’s pretty sure they’re closing up again.

“techno and dad are at the hospital.”

“what? for what?” tommy says, eyes widening. 

“well, uh, he tried to kill himself tommy.” there was no point sugarcoating it. it happened, and it fucking hurt to say. maybe he was hoping it would get easier. 

“what?” came tommy’s voice from the backseat, sounding so young and lost, and wilbur turns away and just thinks of all the places where he would’ve had to tell tommy that techno was dead instead.

“yeah.” really there was nothing else he could say. what do you say? how do you even start a sentence to comfort someone about something like this? something so personal? it started with techno, but it had spread to the others like cracks in a glass table. there’s the what ifs, and the what nows, and the other places on the other side of back holes where a million wilburs drove off a million bridges at a million different angles. 

they all sat there in the dark car, and they breathed. what else could you do? schlatt was going at least ten, crawling down the suburban road illuminated by amber streetlights and the glow from the windows of houses with white picket fences. alone on the street, three kids sat in the car and their hearts pumped blood and the valves inside of their veins forced it through, and somewhere in a five storey building a teenager with pink hair was forcing down a cup of charcoal, half-digested poison swirling low in his stomach. 

wilbur looks back at tommy’s tear stained face, illuminated by the distant glow of a streetlight casting odd shadows on his cheeks. he’s not wearing his seatbelt, and wilbur unclasps his own and twists his body around until he could grab one of tommy’s hands, squeezing it within his own. it’s a bit of an awkward position, but he doesn’t care. his spine is being twisted, but it’s better then being snapped in half by a steering wheel, water rushing in and filling his mouth, his lungs, his eyes.

suddenly wilbur’s really tired. he tastes blood and seawater in his mouth, and his head is pounding and he just wants to go to sleep and maybe never have to wake up.

tommy seems to notice, and he retracts his hand only to bring it back up to card through wilbur’s hair.

“you look tired wilby.” he whispers. usually wilbur would tease him for the stupid nickname, but he can’t find it in himself to do anything else but cry a little harder.

“it’s okay.”

“wil, it’s not.” he makes eye contact with schlatt, wincing away as soon as their eyes lock. his eyes are intense and filled with concern and it makes him feel a little sick.

“we’ll drive around until they get home. waiting around will make you sick.” schlatt sighs, pressing his foot down on the gas again. the car lurches forward and wilbur turns to stare apathetically at the stretching road in front of his eyes. and that’s it, he thinks. you keep on living, whether you really want to or not. whether your little brother is or not. even if it’s a debate if you’re really alive or not, because sure your heart still beats and your lungs ache for air, but your dull eyes really don’t convey anything more than apathy.

he sniffles, a pathetic sad sound, and the suburban road in front of him blurs into nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK JESUS FUKC UHM AHAH HEY MAMAS WHO WANTS ME TO PAY FOR THEIR THERAPY NOW??
> 
> would you believe me if i said i'm currently mentally stable, sober, clean and the happiest i've ever been yet wrote this B-) its more likely than you think 
> 
> oh also btw im canadian so idk what 50km/hr would be but that's an average like suburban speed limit so my mans wilbur was going highway speed in a residential area oop


	9. walk out onto your front lawn and face into the rain, shout into the wind, this'll never be the same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello gay people, so far this week i’ve had a gender crisis, relapsed, screamed los campesinos for four hours, booked a $100 facial, and dissociated so bad i couldn’t see GO ME  
> anyways this is the only thing i’ve ever written to make me cry so good luck?
> 
> tw // breakdowns, self harm implied (squint and u miss it tho) suicidal thoughts, drug use

there are eleven mugs, four cups, three bowls, and seven water bottles scattered at random in wilbur’s room. he knows this because he’s counted them once, twice, more than three times, eyes scanning his messy room. he can’t remember what he’d eaten in the bowls, or drank in the mugs, but he knows that three of the water bottles had pink whitney, two had vodka, and one had something he doesn’t remember acquiring. he also knows how fast he drank them.

it’s been two days. not that he’s like counting or something, but he’s pretty sure it’s been two days. some of the water bottles were from before. some of them weren’t. and now he’s sitting with his spine pressed into the wall, knees loosely held to his chest. 

it felt wrong to go hang out with anyone, even though tommy was over at ranboo’s. he feels stupid that it was hitting him this hard when it was his brother’s fucking suicide attempt. speaking of techno, wilbur had barely seen him since. he’d just been holed up in his room. wilbur had seen him twice since, when they got home and they’d hugged in silence, and when wilbur bumped into him making a pb&j at four in the morning. fuck, wilbur didn’t even think it was hitting techno this hard. 

but phil hadn’t been keeping an eye on wilbur, too preoccupied with techno. he supposed it was fair, given what had happened, and wilbur really couldn’t complain because he’d smoked in his room for the first time and phil hadn’t kicked the door down and chopped his head off, so, he counted it as a good thing.

wilbur felt like he was losing his mind. he really did want to go hang out with his friends, but something stopped him. he didn’t know what though. he felt a dark emotion curling in his gut whenever he thought about seeing his friends, fear and anger and sadness but mostly the urge to drink himself to death.

it’s friday night. his friends are probably having a party, but he wouldn’t know because his phone is dead in the pocket of the jacket he was wearing on wednesday night. it’s friday and he should’ve been doing shots with fundy, or smoking with dream and sapnap, or karaoke with karl and alex, but what was he doing instead? sitting on the hardwood floor, dying light filtering through his open curtains and giving the room a strange atmosphere. he wasn’t drunk though. 

well, yet. 

actually, he was pretty sure he was out of alcohol. fuck. 

he finally stood, shaking curly brown hair out of his eyes and beelining for the plant in the corner of his room. in tenth grade he’d made a hiding place, with the help of schlatt, underneath the soil of the plant. the dirt surrounding it was actually on a tray, and it removed to show an empty space for all one's illegal substances. unfortunately for wilbur, there was no alcohol left. fortunately for wilbur, there was a three hundred milligram gummy worm edible that was calling his name. 

“is this what we’ve come to.” he spoke aloud, examining the package. apparently he decided that yes, this was in fact, what he’d come to, and shoved a handful of gummy worms down his throat. maybe he should get too high to move tonight, walking the line between just super high and greening out. actually that sounds like a good idea.

he turns, shoving another handful of gummy worms in his mouth, and goes to rifle through his bedside drawer. if his memory was correct, he had a two hundred milligram edible somewhere. 

bingo.

he unwrapped the chocolate, throwing it all in his mouth at once and swallowing. maybe he should be more conscious of the amount of thc he was consuming, but he didn’t particularly care if he greened. he just wanted to be numb. 

there was a quiet knock at the door. 

“come in?” he said, wondering if it was phil. his dad was in fact, in the house, but wilbur didn’t give a fuck about getting high. phil probably wouldn’t bother him though. the only other person in the house was…

the door creaked open, and a head of pink hair peeked past the doorframe. then techno shuffled into the room, clad in a black hoodie and sweatpants. they looked at each other awkwardly for a second, then techno closed the door behind him and sat cross legged on the bed.

“hey”

“hey.” there was a considerable beat of silence. they used to talk like this for hours, why was it so awkward now?

“what’s up” wilbur said, finally moving to sit on the bed next to him.

“i had a question.” techno begins, uncertain. his eyes are darting around the room, anywhere but wilbur.

“shoot.”

“so, do you think it’s a good idea to... to get rid of an… addiction with another addiction.”

“uh, well.” he blinked, “maybe not a good idea, but it would work.” what the hell does that mean? wilbur raised a brow at his brother, who was fidgeting with his hands and looking away.

“like nicotine?” woah woah woah, back up.

“what, to get rid of or start?”

“start.” techno mumbled.

“no.” he said immediately, “nope, not a good idea at all.”

“why?”

“phil already has two drug addicted kids.” wilbur scoffed, looking away. maybe he couldn’t stop tommy, but he wasn’t going to let it happen again. whatever addiction techno wanted to get over, (and wilbur had a feeling he knew what it was) he’d have to get through it.

“yeah- wait two?” techno turned to look at him for the first time since coming in, brow furrowing.

“yeah, tommy’s ah, taking after his big brother.” he laughed humorlessly. with what that sentence implied, it left a heavy silence settling between the two.

“oh.”

“look, you don’t need to tell me what it is, but i will help you through fucking anything techno, okay? but i won’t let you destroy yourself, if it can be avoided.” techno looked away, face reddening. 

“thanks wil.” 

“i probably don’t say it enough, but i love you.” he paused, “and i’m glad that this fucked up universe put us in each other's lives.”

“me too.” techno smiled, an exhausted smile but one that had wilbur smiling back because he’d do anything for this pink haired fuck he called his brother. 

“i think,” techno started, looking over at wilbur again. wilbur tried to give him an encouraging look, “like, i don’t regret, um, attempting. but i have to like go to therapy now and shit, so if anythin’ i’ll get slightly better.” 

“i feel like it’s okay to not regret it, and i’m glad you’re going to try to get better and shit, dude, i’m here if you need to talk. i’m the resident family therapist.” he giggled at the end of the sentence, which made techno huff a laugh as well. 

“i… yeah, you’re the best to talk to. i feel like, i don’t know, we haven’t really been talkin’ as much lately.”

“yeah same.” he paused. “i miss you, dude.”

“me too.” they looked at each other.

“so, how’s life been?”

“oh y’know, fresh out the hospital, phil won’t leave me alone, he locked the silverware drawer and everyone knows the code but me.” techno joked, gesturing to the side. wilbur laughed.

“i feel like the butter knives aren’t what he should be focusing on.”

“he’s trying his best.” they both giggle, wilbur leaning a little closer.

“so, wilbur, how’s life been?” what a loaded question.

“oh y’know, the usual, hanging out with schlatt, did cocaine last weekend, have a chem test on tuesday.”

“sorry, what?” techno blinks, tone full of disbelief and also what the fuck.

“yeah, it was a bit of an accident.” techno laughs incredulously. 

“how does one accidentally snort cocaine?” 

“i asked myself the same question.” 

“i mean, how was it?”

“i don’t actually remember.” he laughs.

“wow.”

“yeah, don’t do drugs.” there was a lull in the conversation, both of them looking around the room.

“y’know wil,” techno leans forward, making direct eye contact with wilbur, “your offer goes both ways. i can be a therapist for a bit too, and if you ever want to talk, or are struggling, i know what it’s like, so don’t be scared to hit me up. you deserve to vent too.”

fuck. there’s a lump that forms in his throat and for a second he can’t speak, so he elects to lean over and wrap techno in a hug. his brother leans into it, wrapping his arms around wilbur, and burying his face into his shoulder. they don’t move for a long time.

“thanks.” he says, words muffled by the thick fabric of techno’s hoodie. 

“wil, i’m worried about you.”

“you should be worried about yourself.” he whispers, voice shaking. 

“i am. but i’m worried about you too.” techno whispers back. 

“fuck.” he tries desperately to hold the tears back, so hard his throat aches. but they slip out of his eyes anyway. he must look so fucking sad, almost as sad as he feels, as he tries not to fall apart against techno’s shoulder.

“hey, you’re okay.”

“no, i’m not,” he sobs, hands clutching at the front of techno’s hoodie, “i’m really fucking not and i don’t know how to get out of the fucking ugly spiral i’m in.”

“i know, wil, just let it out. it’s okay to cry.”

“i shouldn’t be crying on you, you have your own shit, i mean-”

“stop, wil, it’s okay. i’m fine right now.”

“...okay.” he takes a shuddering breath in, and sobs it out. he didn’t know why he was breaking down all of a sudden, why now? maybe it was what techno said to him. the reassurance that it was okay to hurt. the other teen just kept stroking his hair, a lifeline in the ocean that he was fucking drowning in.

they sat there like that in silence for a bit, wilbur with sobs wracking his too-thin body, and techno just letting him cry. he can’t remember being vulnerable like this with anyone except schlatt, and that was almost never. 

suddenly a strong wave of vertigo washed over him. oh right.

“...tech?” he whispered.

“yeah?”

“the edibles are hitting.” his head had started to feel fuzzy and warm, and his mouth super fucking dry. he was suddenly struck with fear, realizing how much he took. he was fucked.

“you took- right, that’s fine.”

“i took a lot.” techno stilled.

“you can’t die from weed, right?”

“no, but i think i’m gonna green out.” he whimpered, fucking whimpered, fuck this was pathetic. he was supposed to be the oldest.

“okay, is there anything i can do to help?”

“um, get black pepper, and orange juice. and i don’t think you have, uh, access to the medicine cabinet anymore but advil helps bring a high down. and water. but you don’t have to-”

“shut up, i want to.” techno pulled away, looking wilbur in the face, tears still dripping off his chin. “i’ll tell phil i have a headache and he’ll give me them.”

“wait, actually, i have advil in my drawer. but i need water.”

“on it.” techno got up and left the room, door softly closing behind him, and wilbur tried to remember how to breath. schlatt had always called it ‘breathing on manual’, because it took conscious effort for him to take steady, even breaths. not to mention the fact that he was still crying. he’d only ever greened out a couple of times, maybe once or twice. each time had been fucking hell. he’d felt like he was dying. schlatt was always there.

the door opened again, making him jump. it had only felt like a few seconds, but in came techno carrying a carton of orange juice, a jug of water, and the pepper shaker. 

“hey.” 

wilbur felt like he could barely speak, each movement like he was moving through water to make. he simply reached out to techno, who deposited his haul onto the nightstand and dug in the drawer for the advil. 

“here.” he handed wilbur three capsules and a cup of orange juice, and wilbur threw it back and drank the whole cup. techno handed him the carton and sat on the bed again.

“i hate doing this to myself.” wilbur whispered, tears snaking a path down his cheeks and falling onto his lap. he found that it was the truth. maybe he hated himself more than he hated what he did to this fucking body. 

“i know.” 

“fuck.” he said again, taking a big swig of orange juice and then putting it down, crawling over to techno and leaning on him. techno started running a hand through his hair. 

“i don’t know what’s wrong with me.” 

“nothin’, wil, you’re just struggling.” 

“i want to fucking die.” the hand in his hair paused for a second, then resumed. he curled further into his brother, lanky legs scrunched up tightly so that they could fit next to his. 

“i know how it feels, but please don’t do anythin’ stupid. i don’t know what i’d do without you.” 

“i don’t know what i’d do without you, tech.” 

“god, we’re just a couple of messed up peas in a pod, aren’t we?” this startled a wet laugh out of wilbur.

“yeah. we are.” he tried to breathe, but he just ended up coughing. he felt the high settling over him, his body felt hot and then cold, he was shaking, and he just wanted to feel okay. he just wanted to feel okay. that’s the only thing he’s ever wanted, fuck, aiming for happiness felt like too much. he just wanted to be fucking okay. for once. 

“you should just sleep it off.” 

“okay.” he mumbled shakily. actually that probably was the best idea, he probably wouldn’t throw up if he was sleeping. he definitely didn’t want to feel paranoid, because once he kept thinking he heard the cops coming for them and it was so vivid he remembers hyperventilating on schlatt’s bedroom floor. reliving that would be a fucking nightmare. 

“i’ll be here.”

“okay.”

he closed his eyes, odd colors and shapes dancing on his eyelids, and a heavy weight on his chest, and he wondered if this is what dying felt like.

“i love you.” came a whisper in his ear, “thank you for saving my life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANYWASY MAMAS IM WRITING THIS ON THE BUS AND I DELTED THE FIRST DRAFT AND I FORGOT MY MASK AND EVERYONE LOOKED AT ME WEIRD I AM EBARSSED ABWYAS I HAVE TO GO. TO SCHOOL BYE
> 
> update: just got caught vaping in the bathroom TODAY IS GOING SO WELL

**Author's Note:**

> title: angel eyes and basketball - foot ox  
> chapter titles playlist:  
> 1\. no children - the mountain goats  
> 2\. cough syrup - young the giant  
> 3\. no children - the mountain goats  
> 4\. personal space invader - ajj  
> 5\. it's all futile! it's all pointless! - wilbur soot  
> 6\. fentanyl - mccafferty  
> 7\. bad, bad things - ajj  
> 8\. holland, 1945 - neutral milk hotel  
> 9\. a heat rash in the shape of the show me state; or, letters from me to charlotte - los campesinos!
> 
> disclaimer: absolutely not trying to romanticize any of these issues i write about at all, i really want to portray them realistically from personal experiences :)


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